The Journeyman

by Allen Woods

Conclusion

10:35 P.M.

Fresh powdered sugar dribbled from Billy Ray Haun's lips as he sauntered down the stairs of the sheriff station. Even though he'd only joined the force six months ago, Billy Ray loved his job, especially the frequent donut and coffee breaks. Sheriff Blaine didn't allow him in the field yet, but he found pleasant ways to kill time. Whenever Billy Ray asked to get away from a desk, Blaine told him he needed a little longer to get a lay of the land. Billy Ray had a lot to learn about Ithica and the sheriff's projects.

Sheriff Blaine always had something going on. During some graveyard shifts, Billy Ray was the only officer in the entire station. Even during the day, Sheriff Blaine kept the station pretty much empty. Every deputy had a patrol or an assignment or worked on one of the sheriff's hush-hush projects. Some nights, as the minutes crept by like hours, Billy Ray barely stayed awake by wondering what the other men did on those special projects. 'By any means necessary' was one of Sheriff Blaine's favorite sayings. Billy Ray pondered if there was a connection between the saying and the projects.

Probably not, he supposed and licked the last of the powdered sugar from his lips.

"Christ! Wh-What the h-hell!"

Billy Ray hurtled the last two steel rimmed risers and sprinted down the narrow corridor. The cells were at the end of the dead end hallway and he recognized that scream. It was the new one, the short kid they'd locked up less than an hour ago. Unbuttoning the svelte leather strap covering his holster, Billy Ray gripped the butt of his thirty-two caliber semi-automatic. It was small, but Billy Ray was a deadly shot. He could knock a Coke can off a fence from eighty yards. Then it occurred to him. He'd never had to fire live ammunition except in training situations and he felt his bladder weaken. Never go on a bust with a full stomach, the older cops had said. Now Billy Ray understood why.

"Je-Jesus, get this ps-ps-psycho outta h-here!" James yelled as Billy Ray's black polished standard issue shoes slid to a halt in front of cell number three. He lost his balance, almost tumbling to the floor, but his left hand steadied him. He jumped up straight and clutched the gun between his quivering hands. "What the hell's goin' on in here!" he screamed, but it wasn't a question. Like any well-trained officer, he quickly surmised the situation.

"Get h-h-him outta h-here!" James yelled as he cowered against the bars. He clutched Baron's fatty arms, leaving pallid impressions on his biceps, as he tried to pull the giant in front of him. Baron had become a human shield. "Wh-What's wr-wrong with h-him?"

Billy Ray stepped closer, pressing the side of his gun against his sweaty chest of matted hair, as his lips trembled. He was at a loss for words. They hadn't trained him for this kind of incident. Panic clutched Billy Ray's muscles--a doctor could have taken his pulse from the visible throb on his neck--and he wiped the sweat off his forehead. It trickled to the floor in sheets like a wet dog shaking itself dry. He hadn't seen anything like this since he was eleven and the neighbor's brown and black Boxer contracted rabies. Billy Ray thought back, briefly reminiscing in the innocence of youth, and tried to remember how they calmed the Boxer. Then it came to him. They shot it.

Mustering transparent resolve, Billy Ray raised his gun and took aim at Todd's head. "Lay down on the ground now!"

James stared at the deputy awkwardly, the chagrined expression on his face asking whether or not he honestly believed that approach would really work. It didn't. Todd quivered in the corner, his head twitching as though an electrode was applying shocks, and foam frothed on his lips. Guttural roars emanated from his ragged throat as he slammed his fists against the brick wall. The roars swelled into long exhales until he breathed again, choking on the viscous foam spreading across his face.

"D-Do s-something!" James urged. A panicky smile jumped to the deputy's lips as he slowly backed away from the cell, sweat now pouring off his head in buckets. He had no idea what to do. "S-Subdue h-h-him or l-let us out!"

"I can't let you out," Billy Ray contemptuously intoned.

"Then st-stop h-h-him!" James proffered.

Yes, it made sense. Billy Ray was a few inches and several pounds larger than Todd. It just might work. He could tackle him and finally apply some of the police chokeholds that were designed not to appear like chokeholds. He'd been dying to try them out.

Running back down the hall, he slid to a stop at the small desk next to the cell locking controls. He reached up to release the lock on cell three when he suddenly felt like a fool. Billy Ray slapped his forehead and grabbed two pairs of shackles out of the top drawer. He scampered back down the hall and held up the glinting cuffs.

"Wh-What are those f-f-for?"

"You and Big Paws turn around. I'll cuff you through the bars then take down the druggie." Billy Ray glanced at Todd. The foam was beginning to pool at his feet and the twitching intensified, becoming more rapid.

"N-no way!"

"Do it!" Billy Ray ordered with a scowl as he leveled the barrel of his gun.

James craned his neck to look at Baron furtively and he swallowed hard. His throat was contracting. The deputy wasn't giving them a choice. "O-Okay." He turned around and stuck his wrists through two of the grimy bars. Steel rings clicked into place around his wrists and James closed his eyes, trying to block out any distractions. He concentrated hard, feeling every line and curve of the cuffs until Baron interrupted him.

"I don't like it when people call me Big Paws, shoo no."

"Shut up retard!" Billy Ray shouted and he turned the gun on Baron.

"D-Do like h-he s-s-says, B-Baron," James persuaded without ever opening his eyes. He felt his chest heave in and out nervously, but James focussed.

Reluctantly, Baron pressed his hands against the bars. His twelve-inch wrists wouldn't squeeze between them, but Billy Ray pushed the cuffs through the bars as Todd groaned more violently. He sounded as though a pig had roosted in his throat, squealing while a butcher chopped it to pieces. Billy Ray slid the last cuff into a locked position and dashed down the hall for the fourth time.

Almost prostrating himself atop the desk, he reached to the panel to turn the key that unlocked cell three. He noticed the general alarm button next to the desk. It was there for dire emergencies, jail breaks or officers down. Press it twice and every bell in the station would blare stridently. It never crossed Bill Ray's mind to sound it. Not for any particular reason; it simply never entered the equation.

He turned the key to cell three and heard the familiar clicking sound, like a thick elevator door, as the cell bars slid open. He ran down the hall, clutching his gun between both hands just like he'd watched the cops do on CHIPS every Friday night when he was a kid. Holding the firearm level with his right shoulder, he sidled into the cell.

"On the floor now!" he shouted in the voice he had practiced throughout his training. Every night before bed, Billy Ray stood in front of the bathroom mirror and worked on his scowl. Usually, he devolved into a bad Robert DeNiro Taxi Driver impressions, but Billy Ray had bolstered a commanding voice nonetheless. It was authoritative and frightening enough to make a cat pee on its master's shoulder. "Drop down!"

Todd staggered forward, his head bobbing to the side with every breath, as he groaned. It was a zombieish, real Night of the Living Dead, kind of wail. White froth dripped from his sunburned lower lip and Billy Ray recoiled in disgust. He wasn't afraid any longer, he was revolted. "Down now!" Todd fell to one knee wearily and then collapsed on the other. Stretching out his arms like a child taking communion, he garbled incomprehensible words with his moans.

"Flat on the ground!" Billy Ray screamed as Todd steadied his listing body. He straightened his back and stared deep into the deputy's young, unwrinkled eyes. Then, through the foam on Todd's lips, the deputy thought he encountered a smile.

A sharp blow to the base of the skull was the last thing Billy Ray recalled. He never saw it coming. James' elbow drove deep into the soft flesh at the back of his neck, knocking him unconscious for hours. Todd was impressed. For a guy his size, James really packed a wallop.

Todd got off his knees and wiped the foam away with his left arm. "I still can't believe it. How'd you ever get out of those cuffs?"

"W-W-W dot Houdini dot com," James said confidently as he retrieved a ring of silver and gold keys from Billy Ray's pants. He'd learned a few lessons on the Net. James figured the art of escape might come in handy one day. "It n-never w-would have w-worked without y-you. That Al-Alka Seltzer idea w-was br-brilliant."

"Yeah, we're lucky they let me keep 'em when they threw us down here, but who would have thought you could learn how to wriggle out of a pair of cuffs by reading some junk on the…what did you call it again?"

"The in-internet," James answered as he tried the various keys on Baron's cuffs.

"Yeah," Todd said, reminiscing. "I think I've heard of that." He stared at the motionless deputy and his thoughts quickly shifted to Linda. She wasn't coming back. It had taken a while for that fact to settle in. She was gone for good. He'd wake up tomorrow in an empty bed for the first time in years. Todd wished they'd shared a room in the hotel last night. He never imagined it would be their last chance.

He leaned against the wall as James finally found the key that unlocked Baron's shackles. Suddenly, Todd felt lightheaded, swimming in a lake of ether.

And to think I used to want to feel this way. I used to get off on feeling spacey. A whippet always did me right. Suck down a few breaths and chase it with a line and I was set for hours. Shit, those were the days!

At that moment, Todd would have ripped out his own tongue for a line. He remembered the swoon in his stomach when the coke hit the blood and the crazy rush of energy that always followed. He missed it. Just because he rehabbed didn't mean he didn't still want it. He thought about it every day, especially now, yearning for a rush to fill the emptiness in his heart. But as he glanced at the deputy's unconscious body and thought of Linda again, he wanted something more than a line.

Though Linda was gone, he'd promised her he'd never touch a narcotic again. The only person he had left to keep that promise for was himself, but he still thought of her.

She's gone, asshole! Find some coke and let's get started! She'll never know! She can't bitch about it anymore! You know you want to.

The voice in Todd's head was right, about everything, but one truth was more self-evident than all the others. He did want to. Only it was a different urge he suddenly struggled with. He wanted to kill someone for taking the most important person in his life. He wanted to find Cletus and vacuum his skull the way his men had done to Linda.

"L-Let's g-go!" James shouted as Baron's cuffs dropped to the floor.

Todd blinked and pushed himself off the wall. "A-Are y-you c-coming?" He nodded. It was time. Todd was ready. The rest of his life had no meaning until this moment. Everything else was prologue for what he would do in the next hour.

"Ready," Todd answered and he followed James and Baron down the hall.

***

James looked toward the stairwell. It was empty. He'd only seen three deputies when they brought him in and he assumed that at least one of them had left for the night. Still, the possibility of facing two deputies and the sheriff--James didn't know that Sheriff Blaine wasn't in the station at this moment--put caution in his steps. He peered down the long corridor and guessed that it was once part of a basement before someone converted the brownstone into a station. They were probably standing right where a row of cheap washers and quarter stealing dryers had once lined the walls.

"Are we gonna leave?" Baron asked.

"Yeah," James nodded. "I've g-got an i-idea."

Another one, Todd thought. Not that the last one hadn't worked--they were out of the cell--but James seemed apt to take risks. Todd wasn't. At least not until he located Cletus.

James leered down the hallway, ambling on tiptoes with his back pressed against the peeling yellow wall, and pointed at a small sliding window near the ceiling. Outside of it, he saw a sidewalk. "Th-Through th-there," he said and pointed.

Todd snorted. "We'll never friggin' make it." The windowpane rotated open like one large venetian blind. Eleven inches were all the space available to squeeze under it. "Baron will never fit and we're too short."

James pulled the plastic office chair out from under Billy Ray's desk. Reaching down, he locked the four wheels in place so it couldn't move. Then he smirked at Todd. "We'll u-use th-this. After w-we cr-crawl th-th-through, we'll kn-knock out the wh-whole fr-frame f-f-f-for Baron."

"And wake up every cop in this place when it crashes,"' Todd retorted.

"We'll p-p-p-pull it ont-t-to the s-s-sidew-walk."

Todd sighed and rubbed his chin against his shirt. He wanted Cletus badly and his desire for vengeance overpowered his circumspect judgement. "It's better than fighting through the front door," he conceded. "Give it a try."

***

Somber musings occupied Sheriff Blaine's attention as he drove toward the station.

When will it end? Does it ever? he pondered while he smiled at the people--creatures of the summer night--strolling down the streets. He saw a man walking his Terrier, a young woman that had sweated through her white tank top jogged beside him, and old Judge Eskeen--retired in '79--marching down the block, his neck elevating skyward to see the twinkling stars. "Hey Judge."

Eskeen turned aside, his stern face as judicial as ever, and waved. "Evening sheriff. How's our town?"

"It's fine Judge," he lied and drove on. Ithica was far from fine. Worst of all, Blaine couldn't blame the problems on one person or thing.

He struggled constantly against the wrong ideas in life. Blaine knew that conceptions of right and wrong were as subjective as an ocean breeze. Everywhere they were different, constantly shifting, but not in his mind. He'd lived in Ithica most of his life, had seen its dark side first hand, and knew what was best. Such a paternalistic attitude gave rise to less than savory methods, but Blaine didn't lose any sleep. It was for the greater good, he convinced himself.

By any means necessary.

His patrol car slowly rolled into the parking lot behind the station. Pebbles crunched beneath the balloon, all-terrain radials and Blaine's eyelids sagged lower. He was tired, had run himself ragged, but he rubbed his sandpapery cheeks and kept going. He switched off the headlights and his pupils expanded before the darkness. Sharp vision focused intently on station. Things were quiet, but that was expected. Blaine had sent out most of the deputies on special assignments. He often wondered what the people of Ithica would say if they ever realized just how many men and women acted as undercover agents for his force. They'd probably rip the gold star off his wide cut brown shirt. The size of his police force was disproportionate to the population of the town, but Blaine knew it was necessary.

He'd seen the dark side. He knew Cletus Watts better than his own mother. Worst of all, he saw the tension in the streets. It was palpable. Ithica was a powder keg sitting on a case of dynamite and he stood ever vigilant with a hose to douse any flames.

Pushing in the parking break on the converted Ford Taurus, he rested in his car for a moment. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept. There was so much to consider--the disappearance of that young black girl, Scottie Nelson's death, the various drug deals that seemed to take place in Ithica every day, those three idiots in his holding cell, the Brooks assault, keeping an ever present eye on Cletus, and the Mason murder. The last one bothered him the most. There was something more to Carrie Mason's death than met the eye.

It wasn't the Hall boy; he couldn't hurt a fly in Blaine's estimation. It could have been Cletus, but his men had kept a watchful eye on him during the night of the murder. Cletus had eluded them for short periods and Blaine didn't dare send any of his men into that damn Lodge to spy, but they maintained decent tabs on Cletus throughout the day and night. Maybe someone else killed Carrie? Perhaps it was a bum or a drifter who had already left town, but Blaine didn't think so. He'd had a bad feeling about that case from the moment he saw her defiled body on the curbside.

He touched his forehead softly as he gazed in the rear view mirror. Right here, he thought as he traced an outline of the purple bruise he'd seen on Carrie's brow. It was enormous, the kind of blow that could knock the horn off a rhino. What makes a person do that? he wondered.

Blaine fixed his hat, pushing it back on his head, and leaned against the steering wheel. A few minutes of rest were all he asked, but he wouldn't get it. As soon as his forearms nestled against the thick molded rubber, he saw Baron Davies crawling through a broken window at the base of the station house. He barely squeezed through as the other two idiots each pulled as hard as they could on one of his hamhock arms. Before Blaine could wipe the shocked drool off his chin, the three escapees were up and running. They fled toward the vast abandoned lot a block behind the station. It was dark back there and they didn't have flashlights.

They won't get far, Blaine decided as he jumped out of his car. They were younger and faster, but Blaine had savvy. He knew he could catch up. Unlike Billy Ray, Blaine boasted over twenty years experience in law enforcement and he considered running inside to get help from the other deputies on duty, but he didn't. With experience came confidence and Blaine exuded arrogance the way a dancer exudes grace. He knew he wouldn't catch them and if he took the time to gather the men, the escapees would get farther away.

No time for that! Blaine concluded and he popped open the trunk of the Ford. After all, it was only Big Paws, the slacker, and the other retard. If I can't bring them back, then I don't deserve to be sheriff.

He'd conducted a dozen manhunts and fifteen stakeouts during his career. Blaine knew exactly what he was doing. He reached into the black upholstered trunk and pulled out a twelve-gauge shotgun. He checked to make sure it had shells. It did and he was ready.

Blaine took a deep breath and chased after the three men as they all disappeared into the blackness of the empty lot. In the distance, a black Labrador growled at the moon.

***

Sixteen miles away, at the nearest National Weather Center, the lonely man working the nightshift the day before a holiday made a startling discovery. Inexplicably, the temperature around Ithica, Georgia had risen a full four degrees in the last six minutes. He'd never seen anything like it. There wasn't a meteorological explanation to describe it.

Chapter Twenty-Four: Think Like a Killer

10:40 P.M.

Blades of grass crunched softly underneath Todd's feet as his muscles stiffened into distended cramps. The ground was dry, cracking, and the cacophony of their shuffling feet heightened his frayed nerves. Peering over his shoulder every few seconds, he only saw darkness. The stars and the moon cast a gray sheen over the rolling field, but it wasn't bright enough for Todd to determine whether or not someone had followed them. He sensed that someone, or something, was there, a few steps behind him, waiting for the right moment to pounce. He'd sensed it since they escaped the sheriff's station.

"I'm telling you I saw the sheriff in the parking lot," Todd repeated. He'd already voiced this concern three times in the last six minutes.

"K-Keep running," James answered. He hadn't listened to Todd. The quarter sized blister that had erupted on the ball of his left foot distracted him. He felt the moist squish of dead flesh and hobbled as fast as he could.

"I'm telling you, he saw us run into this field. He's behind us somewhere. We can't keep running in a straight line!"

"B-Baron, wh-where's the L-Lodge?"

"The old theater. Not much farther," he replied, his breathing labored. Baron hadn't exercised this much his entire life. Painful cramps pierced his gut on both sides. For a moment, he thought someone had shot him with an arrow. The sharp pain was a flash of red-hot intensity and he stopped, doubling over to gasp for air.

"B-Baron, wh-what are y-you d-doing?"

"I'm hurtin'," he groaned as his hands palpitated the blubbery spare-tire above his right hip. He wheezed for air as his face contorted into a ghastly sac of wrinkles and tears.

"We h-have to k-keep r-running."

"Can't," Baron answered and he fell to one knee. The pain crept along his stomach and pushed a hot poker of agony into his sternum. James tugged at his arm, but Baron became more lethargic. Stumbling forward, he twisted sideways to land on his butt. His rotund stomach settled into place, nestled between his knees, and Baron refused to move.

"C-Come on!" James yelled, pulling at his shoulder. Baron didn't budge.

"We have to divide up and lose the sheriff," Todd interjected. It was the best solution he could think of on the spur of the moment and James gawked at him. Averting his solemn eyes, Todd knew it was a foolish idea. Without Baron's guidance they would become lost and then Blaine could hunt them down one at a time.

"H-Help m-me get Baron u-up."

"That won't be necessary, boy," a grim voice called out. James and Todd's heads rotated every direction. They crouched along a depression between the rolling hills and darkness brimmed over the zenith of dry grass all around them.

We're sitting ducks was the first thought that popped into James' mind. Whoever was out there, watching and mocking them, had the high ground. He had the advantage and James tried to lure it away. "C-Come on y-you f-faggot! G-Get down h-here!" he screamed, imitating a menacing voice. An amused chuckle wafted down from the high ground.

Dry grass crackled underneath a heavy boot sole and the outline of a trooper hat appeared against the darkness. A beam of yellow light shined down on them and James covered his eyes. He didn't need to see to know who it was. Neither did Todd. "Shine the fucking flashlight somewhere else."

The sheriff complied. The beam lowered as he ambled into the depression, the broad side of each foot slid in front of the other until Blaine reached more level ground. His mustached lip curled in resentment and he approached the escapees slowly, the barrel of his shotgun pointed to the ground. This moment should have tasted saccharine sweet--the apprehension of escaped fugitives always put his name in the papers--but it was bitter. "I'm sick of both you assholes. At least a couple times a year some asshole gets lost round here or passes through Ithica and ends up dead."

"Wh-Where do y-you sh-sh-shoot them? B-Back of the h-head?"

Blaine gripped his gun tightly. "You still don't get it, do you boy? From first thing this morning I've tried to help ya, but ya won't listen. What the hell happened to ya? You have some sorta problem with a cop once? You've suspected me from the first moment we met and now it's come to this."

Defiant, James shouted, "If you're going to sh-shoot us, g-get it o-o-o-over w-with!"

"Shut up," Todd whispered in his ear. He wasn't as eager to die just yet. At least not until he tasted Cletus' blood.

Without warning, Sheriff Blaine raised his shotgun and aimed it at James' chest. Anger blazed in his dark eyes as his skin took on a more cerise hue. "Strangers aren't welcome in Ithica! I try to keep y'all out of here for your own protection, but you refused to heed me. Dammit, you just don't understand because you haven't lived here!"

"C-Cut the b-b-bullshit!"

Blaine twisted his neck. "There's something wrong with Ithica and it's intensifying. Everyone in these parts has a tendency to give in to their dark side and y'all are making it worse!"

"What are you talking about?" Todd asked, perplexed.

"The fucking voice!" Blaine screamed as his pupils contracted into pinpoints. The rigid control that had made him a steady, even-handed sheriff was slipping away. "That damn voice that lingers in everyone's head telling them to kill and hurt. Hell, I hear it too, but I'm strong enough to resist. Most people aren't and the last thing I want is more weaklings like you two, coming round here and stirring the shit. Leave it be and get the fuck away from here as fast as you can!"

The voice, James thought. He stole a furtive glance at Todd and detected the same detached horror on his face. He'd heard it, too. James couldn't be certain, but he suspected what voice the sheriff meant. It was the voice that had tormented them all throughout their lives. Until now, they had rationalized it as their conscious talking, but Blaine's ranting had somehow made it tangible. James couldn't dismiss it as a figment any longer. Dawning awareness revealed the voice as something more. An eerie feeling seeped deep into the marrow of James' bones and everything became clear to him. It wasn't his voice he'd heard; it belonged to something else, a dark sibyl, that had warned him to leave Ithica. The voice had resounded angrily, reminding him of Shelbyville and his insecurities. It was venomous. The voice had tried to scare him away.

Suddenly, the truth crystallized in his mind and James' throat tightened. Coincidence is an invention of the unimaginative. The voice doesn't want me here, but we're supposed to fulfill some sort of destiny. There's a purpose at work.

James knew he was right--he had never been more certain of an instinct in his life--but he needed confirmation. He had to be certain it wasn't an elaborate fallacy or illusion. His lips flapped together uncontrollably, but he managed to stutter, "Y-Y-You've h-h-h0heard it t-t-too?"

Blaine nodded deliberately, understanding what he meant. "We've all heard it, son." He looked at Todd and Baron. "We all know it's there, but most people chose to ignore it. Don't rationalize it away. It's not a trick. We've all heard the same voice."

But you won't hear me for much longer you little shits!

With mechanical precision, James' neck panned toward Todd. Their eyes met and words were unnecessary. They'd both heard it--the inflection was distinct in their own minds, but the voice was the same--and they both realized that the other man had heard it, too. Todd's distraught face revealed more than he ever could have spoken aloud. Wild fear ran rampant through his soul as his trembling jaw beckoned, what the hell are we into?

You fuckers should have listened to me when you had the chance.

A deafening bang sliced into their ears and James fell to his knees. Each palm covered an ear, but it was too late. The strident explosion of noise had reverberated off his eardrums and he felt nauseous. When he opened his eyes and looked up, he felt substantially worse. His surreptitious journey had come full circle and the gulf between survival and truth widened to a new horizon.

"I've waited years to do that," Cletus intoned as wisps of white smoke filtered from the barrel of his handgun. A satisfied grin covered his face and James didn't need to look at Blaine to know he was dead. A glimpse of peripheral vision glowed red with blood and broken bits of skull. James bowed his head, searching for solace or hope anywhere he could find it, but he saw something else sticking to his boot. It was Blaine's ear.

"J-Jesus!" James screamed, kicking the tattered piece of flesh across the grass. As he looked up, Cletus continued to smile. After all of his caution and barely eluding this madman at the barn, Cletus had found him.

"You're next you little faggot!"

A steady hand reached out and lowered Cletus' aim. James was so shocked that he hadn't realized Cletus wasn't alone. Eight men surrounded him along the ridge of the hill, but it was one man in particular, the tall guy altering Cletus' aim, that caught James' eye. Stenciled yellow letters radiated off his denim cap. They read: SHELBYVILLE POLICE DEPT. Ironically, James would have felt relieved if he'd seen Gill Gaddis on that ridge. The truth standing before him was much worse.

"Easy Cletus," Goth said. "If I teach you nothing else, learn to control your emotions. Hatred can destroy a man if he succumbs to it."

The timbre of that voice struck a chord in Todd's fervent mind. It was the same as the one in his head. "I know you!" he shouted and pointed at Goth. He'd known the Journeyman his whole life. He was always there when he got high or loaded, but he remembered Goth's essence more recently. "You were in that hotel room last night. I felt you! You were there!"

Goth faced Todd and smiled. An index finger rose in front of his lips, beckoning silence, as he descended the hill.

"You were there," Todd muttered. Goth was the darkness that existed on the fringe of shadows, the cold feeling that had swept through the room and awakened him. He was the presence Todd had felt.

"Wh-Who are y-you?" James asked.

Goth leaned closer so the other men on the ridge could not hear. He wanted a degree of privacy. This moment was his to savor. "Does it really matter who I am?" the Journeyman asked pleasantly. He didn't seem at all threatening, as James had expected. Jaunty and urbane better described him. Goth glowed confidently like a victorious general returning from war--the world was his. "You both know what I am, as do you Big Paws."

The painful cramps waning, Baron staggered to his feet and stared at this stranger. How's he know my name? I ain't never met him, shoo no.

"I've known you for a very long time, Baron, though not as well as I know your friends. You're difficult to get a read on, Big Paws, but it doesn't matter now. The three musketeers are together, all one happy family. You found each other faster than I anticipated."

"You killed Linda," Todd accused. The focus of his vengeance slowly shifted. Goth had been there his entire life, hiding in shadows as he drove a wedge through their marriage. The Journeyman had pushed him to this moment, a rancher herding thoughtless steer.

Goth smiled and shook his head slightly. "Haven't you listened to anything I've told you. Todd, you killed her. It's all your fault."

He shook his head with newfound surety. "No. It was you. I can feel it now. You were at that dry creek. Maybe not in body, but in spirit. You killed her."

Maybe he did. Goth couldn't remember.

He despised accusations, however. "You should have listened to my warnings and stayed away from here," Goth said, shedding any urbane pretense. "I tried to keep you out of it, but now you're involved and I must deal with you accordingly. You too can play a part in this grand event." Perhaps, Goth considered, this moment was inevitable. Some roads only traveled one way and these pitiful adversaries had no choice in the matter.

"P-Play a p-p-p-part in wh-what?"

Goth smacked his lips open and closed, mocking James. This moment was his and he could do whatever he wanted. Goth brimmed with arrogant confidence. Victory was sweet. "The single greatest event in human history! Tonight is the spark."

"My daddy always said that sparks start fires," Baron added. Goth turned to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder.

"From the mouth of babes. How right you are, Baron. Sparks do start fires and Ithica will explode with a fury unlike any the world has ever seen. All eyes will turn to this tiny town as passions erupt. Humans are such simple creatures with one universal characteristic. Not every person can love, but every person can hate. And that hatred will explode, spreading across the world until there is nothing left. Civilization will melt before the heat of human belligerence. Cities will fall and order will succumb to chaos. Ashes will fill the earth, but I will rise from them and claim what is mine, what has always been mine. This is my last trip. The epoch of the Journeyman has arrived."

"You're insane," Todd intoned. "Fury doesn't spread anywhere. It's not a virus. Hell, if Rodney King wasn't a big enough spark, what makes you think anyone will care what happens in this shithole on the edge of nowhere?"

Smug, Goth licked his lips. He took his hand off Baron's shoulder and walked closer to Todd. The reek of the Journeyman's foul breath overwhelmed him, dizzying Todd until Goth's voice captivated his attention. "Let me worry about that. I've waited too long not to anticipate every eventuality. The world's eyes will turn to Ithica and the hatred will spill over. I'm sure of it. Every spark of the past was a distraction leading up to this moment. The time is ripe. I should know. I've stirred the hatred into a boiling froth."

"You hurt Carrie Mason," Baron said in a voice that sounded nothing like his own. It was steady, deep, and morose. Something had altered him and everyone sensed it. His shoulders straightened and Baron inhaled deep, long breaths. The air consumed him, filling every cell.

Goth had turned to ascend the hill when he heard Baron's accusation. He stared at him for a moment, wondering where that new voice had come from. Baron didn't move. He was motionless, a magnificent pagan statue paying tribute to nature's unbiased force. Goth's eyes shifted to James and the effervescent grin returned to his lips. "You think the same, don't you James?"

He didn't answer. Once Baron mentioned the possibility, James began to wonder, but he forced himself to contemplate a more important question that was forming in his head. For the first time during this insane day, James wasn't thinking about Carrie or himself.

Goth tucked his thumbs under his belt and looked James square in the eyes. Both rows of glistening white teeth radiated behind a smile as Goth lamented, "Poor Carrie. How much did you really know about her? Not much I gather." His voice grew louder, intentionally strident for the men on the ridge to hear. "Maybe I do know what happened to Carrie. Cletus killed her, bashed her skull in with a tire iron. Or maybe I'm lying. Perhaps she fell down and cracked her skull. It does happen from time to time. She was distraught, drunk, and she hit her head when she fell. It's possible, I suppose. Then again, maybe a man did have hand in it. Someone you haven't met or a drifter who left town early this morning. Ultimately, I'm probably giving Carrie too much credit. Maybe she simply couldn't take it anymore and killed herself. It could have happened any of those ways, James. But there's only one way you'll ever know. I can tell you. I know the truth." Goth smirked like a Cheshire cat and crossed his arms. "All you have to do is ask. Ask me, James, that which you detest. Would you like me to tell you?"

Todd and Baron stared at James. A vacant expression covered his face and he shook his head a few centimeters from side to side. "No," he said without a stutter. James had never focused more intently on one idea in his short life. The question dawned on him like rays of light from the rising sun. "There's no such thing as coincidence. Why are you here? You were looking for us, right?"

Goth answered, "As usual, you're not making sense, James."

James shook his head ever so slightly again. "I'm making perfect sense. You didn't happen to hike across this lot and stumble into us. You sought us out, but you don't need anything from us. You haven't asked us anything."

"What's your point?" Goth asked grimly.

"You're here to stop us. You're scared. I don't know why, but you're scared of us. Whatever kind of demon you are with all your power to get inside our heads, you're still afraid of us. That's why you came here. You're a pitiful child scared by a kid, a burnout, and a retard. That's what you're thinking. I don't need to get inside you're head. I can feel your fear."

The smirk left Goth's face. An avalanche of livid anger swelled into his mind and Goth ascended the hill. His men cowered as the tangible hatred and fear spread from Goth's mind into their own. Tight strands of silk webbing, knotted and frayed, bound the men with a linked thought. They weren't sure if they should be afraid of James or the Journeyman.

"You five!" Goth shouted and he pointed at the largest men in the group. "Kill them slowly. I want them to experience pain and feel life slip from their bodies. But don't scar the faces. I need their heads. Bring them to me at Palmer field when you're through!" Goth turned around and leered at James. The smirk had returned, but it no longer expressed his arrogance. It had grown devilish and James felt a lump protrude from his throat. "Their severed heads will make good props at the rally."

"The kid is mine!" Cletus shouted and he clutched Goth's left forearm. He'd given up the Lodge without a fight, but he wasn't ready to let Goth take James from him.

The Journeyman gazed upon Cletus' hand with a glare hot enough to melt steel. "Come with me, Cletus. You still have much to learn. If you learn well there will be plenty of time for killing in the coming days." Before Cletus' eyes could register the movement, Goth's hand clamped onto the back of his neck. His back stiffened and a moment of paralysis transcended his spine. The feeling was electric.

He pushed Cletus forward, down the other side of the hill. There was nothing he could do to stop Goth, but one thought raged through Cletus' mind.

Yer time is coming, asshole!

That revelation made the pain of Goth's grip bearable.

***

The five remaining members of the Lodge descended the hill once Goth had swiftly departed. Knives glinted in their hands and the hollow crackle of cocking guns resounded in the air. Goth was gone. James felt his malevolent essence fade as quickly as it had risen. An effluvium of impending death filled his nostrils. Gunpowder, leather sheaths, and glistening sweat created a strong fetor, but James ignored it. Tranquility calmed his thoughts as the assassins surrounded him and his mind turned once again to Goth. The Journeyman was afraid of something. James was sure of it.

He couldn't even kill us himself. We're a threat to him. Somehow. Some way. He's scared shitless of us.

"How you wanna do this?" one of the men asked. Shadows from their hats concealed their faces. Night was an executioner's mask.

"Like Goth said, kill 'em quick, but not in the face."

"Goth," Baron intoned in that same eerie voice that didn't seem his own. His lips opened, but barely moved, as the words rolled out of his mouth like a player piano. "You call him Goth, but you don't know his real name."

"Shut up Big Paws."

"He doesn't like it when you call him Big Paws," Baron replied.

Todd leaned closer to James, his eyes remained focussed on Baron, and whispered, "What's wrong with him?"

James shrugged. He had no idea.

"It don't matter what we call you!" the shortest man said as he lunged at Baron. Baron didn't flinch, even as the killer mashed a knife to his rubbery neck. A pallid groove pressed deep into his fat and Baron glowered at him. "You look a bit like Mike Taylor, shoo yeah," Baron said, his normal voice reasserting itself. The timbre was his own, but a staid tone crept into his throat.

"Who the fuck is Mike Taylor?" the guy asked, pressing the blade deeper against Baron's neck. James flinched and instinctively reached to his own esophagus. The blade was precariously close to breaking the skin.

"You know Mike Taylor," one of the other men answered as their attention shifted to Baron. "He died a few years back. Got his head ripped clean off."

"You are Mike Taylor," Baron said grimly and in his eyes they were all Mike Taylors, jumping up and down on that poor girl as she screamed for help. Mike Taylor was bad, shoo yeah.

"Hey," another man grunted, snapping his fingers in hope that it might spark a memory. "Didn't Big Paws see what happened to Mike Taylor?"

"No," a deeper voice responded, the same memory dawning in his mind. "He didn't see it. He did it. He fuckin' ripped Mike's head off!"

The pale groove receded from Baron's throat as the short man recoiled slightly. Jaw quivering, he turned to his cohorts and mumbled cautiously, "Big Paws ripped a guy's head off?"

"Shoo yeah." And the world seen through Baron's eyes glowed blood red. That's the last thing he remembered.

Before the short man realized what had happened, Baron twisted his scrawny arm behind his back, dislocating the ball from the socket at his shoulder. The kid screamed in pain, dropping his knife, and the four other men charged Baron. They were too slow. With sudden ferocity, Baron snatched the dropped knife off the ground and slashed at the approaching killers. Blood spewed from their necks as water flows from a showerhead. It drenched the dry grass, staining it crimson.

"Now!" Todd yelled and he grabbed James by the shoulder. Before James could overcome the shock he experienced at the sight of so much blood, Todd had tackled one of the assassins. He dropped his rifle on impact. A gunshot echoed across the hill and Todd beat the man in the back of his head. He grabbed two handfuls of greasy hair and slammed the man's face into the dirt repeatedly.

James recoiled, his resolve shattered by the brutal reality of the violence. Despite his fear, he heard Todd utter, "You killed her!"

"P-P-Please st-stop it!" James yelled, falling to his knees. He covered his ears, strength abandoning his legs. He slumped forward, rubbing his face in the ground and moments later the field grew silent. When James looked up again, all five Lodge members were dead. Blood covered Baron from the knees down as thought a crane had dipped him in a vat of corpuscles and speckles of dirt and blood dotted Todd's face. The face of the man he'd beaten to death was featureless; the nose and both cheekbones had shattered, leaving his visage flat.

Baron lumbered forward, dropping the serrated nine-inch blade from his paw, and fell on his behind. He sat there for a moment, his enormous girth the only thing holding his torso up, and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them again, Baron looked around in dismay. The ground had run red and he scratched his head bewilderedly. "What happened?" he asked and James covered his eyes.

He didn't understand how Baron and Todd could do it. What makes a man kill like that? It was them or us, James reminded himself, but he didn't feel any less disgusted.

***

Far away, the turtle slept.

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Art of Persuasion

10:59 P.M.

Benny tapped the wooden door lightly. Nervousness twisted his stomach into a compact knot. He wasn't sure why he felt his way. It didn't make sense. That jerk Cletus was on the outs and Goth was running the show. Still, he began to feel uneasy around the Journeyman, especially when there weren't other people around. Maybe it was that song he constantly hummed or maybe it was what he'd done to that Stewart girl. Benny couldn't put his finger on it, but no matter how much he laughed at Goth's joke or felt stronger by his presence, he couldn't let go of his fear. Unadulterated, inexplicable, scalding fear.

Benny rapped on the door a second time with all four knuckles. Still no answer. He knew Goth was in there and he reminded himself that Goth had ordered him to inform him of the impending journey to Palmer field. Benny was justified to knock on that door and disturb whatever was happening inside, but that rationalization didn't ease his concern. Benny wanted to pee in his pants.

He knocked on the door a third time, beating it hard. The two rusted hinges creaked as the door pushed open slightly. A crevice of light cut through the darkness. Benny held his breath and pushed the door open farther. There was no turning back now.

"Boss," he whispered as his eyes adjusted to the murky darkness of the chamber. He saw the girl. Goth had bound her to the giant wooden cross again and her head hung forward limply. A gasp of compassion seeped out of Benny's lips as he noticed the runnel of crusty blood lining the side of her right buttock and thigh. It had coagulated and dried earlier in the evening and Benny mashed his lips together in silent prayer. The voice in his head told him he shouldn't have any sympathy for this girl, but he did.

"Yes, Benny," a calm voice called out from the other side of the room. Benny's ragged fingernails dug into the splintered wood of the door as he leaned to the side. Across the room, Goth sat in a lotus position with his back to the door. He was statuesque; a life-sized gargoyle warding off the turtle's influence. "Is it time?"

"Yeah boss," he answered Goth. "Most of the boys have started out for Palmer. You told me to tell you when it was time to go. So that's what I'm doing. Telling you. It's time to go. I'm only doing like you said."

"Yes, Benny, you've done well. Gather Cletus and three other men and come back here in ten minutes. There are a few tasks I must finish before we all leave."

"Yeah, boss. Sure," Benny mumbled and he closed the door behind him. As he ran out of the barn theater to find Cletus, Benny felt very much like a maiden he'd read of in fairy tales. Somehow, he had escaped the dragon's lair unscathed. The mercurial nature of the beast was not something to question and Benny scurried away.

With the door closed, darkness consumed the prop room and Goth felt more at ease. Meditation usually assuaged his racing mind. Something unexpected had occurred. He had realized the error by the time he had returned to the theater. Hall and his companions had eluded death. They'd killed his militiamen.

When Goth first became aware of their escape, he was enraged, but he channeled the beneficial energy into his meditation. He attempted every relaxation technique he knew--slow breathing, quiet humming, rubbing his temples. None of them worked. He remained uneasy.

Goth's eyes darted to the other side of the room. The woman was unconscious and knew nothing. The pain of sodomy had overwhelmed her. Goth grinned ominously. That pain was miniscule compared to what he had in store for her very soon, but he wouldn't allow himself to dwell on the amusing thought. Distractions had already ruined part of his scheme.

How did they escape? he pondered. I must have overlooked something. I foresaw their deaths, but something intervened. Yes, I feel it now. It was the giant or a mantra hiding inside the giant. Such a waste, his untapped savagery. It is irrelevant now. I'll keep a close eye on them every moment. Already I see their intentions and this time I will be ready. No more surprises, no more distractions. I've wasted enough time playing with this girl and digging through layers of the past. The road is finally nearing an end and I must concentrate on the goals at hand. There is still much to do and the rally will soon begin. I must persuade the town. I cannot afford any hesitation on their part. By midnight tonight they must be tweaked, on edge, and ready for the eyes of the world.

Goth reached into his pocket and recovered the spheres. As his palm opened, a bluish-white radiance danced in the air, pirouetting and intertwining. He glanced at Amy again, craning his neck this time. She didn't react. Unconsciousness seized her. Goth turned around again, forgetting about her. She was nothing, a pawn to be sacrificed at his whim. He had more important pieces to manipulate.

The Journeyman's eyes rolled back in his head, his pupils and irises disappearing, and the spheres rotated faster and faster. Soon, a storm of violent energy crackled from his hand, immersing Goth. His work had begun.

***

Deep inside his 6200 square foot estate, Richard Kerling, one of the oldest and loneliest men in all of Ithica, dropped his dentures in a blue glass and lumbered out of the bathroom. His withered stomach had burned all night--as it did most days for the past two years--and Richard languished in his typically foul disposition. Since eight o'clock he'd turned away a vacuum cleaner salesman with a litany of profanities not suitable at a pick up basketball game in Harlem and, in that grand American tradition, he had threatened to sue the telemarketer trying to sell him a new security system over the phone. He detested disturbances.

Richard Kerling was rich, reclusive, and he wanted to keep it that way. He despised human contact. Other people always wanted things from him, but never offered anything in return. Human beings were vampires sucking away the fortune he had amassed over the last fifty-three years. There were, however, some predators more fearsome than vampires prowling the night. Creatures that destroyed without mercy or forethought. They tormented him as frequently as possible, but there was nothing Richard could do about it. He was old and whenever he called the police, those foul demons had always departed. He hated those monsters, those children.

Damn brats had infested the town of Ithica. They were good for nothing, in Richard's well-crafted opinion. They sold drugs, made more useless babies, and threw eggs and toilet paper at his house every Halloween. Summers were even worse. The little brats had more free time on their hands than they knew what to do with. Last week, Richard awakened to find his lawn spray painted brown. There was nothing he could do about it. His impotence in stopping them was the most disheartening aspect for Richard.

This night would be different.

As he pulled his slippers off his feet and climbed into bed, Richard heard a voice. It told him the little brats were in his back yard, throwing toilet paper in his Dogwood trees. Richard lowered his head in disgust, ashamed by his trivial acceptance of defeat. Damn brats would get away with it again.

But the voice told him how to win, how to teach those little guttersnipes a lesson. Richard listened carefully, nodding his head of silver hair at the invisible voice booming through his glamorous bedchamber. When the voice was finished, Richard put his slippers on, walked upstairs, and unlocked his gun cabinet. He removed his prized possession; an authentic German Luger. Richard always kept it loaded and locked safely behind four inches of glass.

The gun felt cold in his hands. He hadn't held it in years, but his heart pumped harder at the exhilaration of touching it. Carefully clutching the butt with both arthritic hands, Richard walked across the room and pushed open a window.

The dance of competing flashlights sparkled in his back yard and he saw diaphanous strands of toilet paper--Quilted Northern--hanging from the lowest tree branches. As he raised the Luger his feckless hands trembled. Electric shocks of pain seared through his swollen knuckles and salty water clouded Richard's eyes. Then he heard the voice again, whispering in his ear, and his aim steadied. Laying the barrel across his left forearm, he maneuvered the sight notch. He got off two shots before his strength gave out, but two was enough. Both boys, Charlie Burns and Bobby Furguson, fell to the ground dead, their brains splattered across the manicured grass like globs of melting ice cream.

Richard turned around and pressed the shaft of the firearm against his throat. The gritty smell of freshly ignited powder tantalized his wrinkled nose. The house felt warmer now, more invigorating, and he thought he might stay awake a little longer. He decided to sit on his porch, the Luger in his lap, and wait for whoever might stroll by. It wouldn't even matter if they were brats or not. The younger the better, but Richard no longer cared with any ardor. He was content to shoot whoever had the misfortune of walking past his property next.

***

"Come on Andruw, one hit baby! Tonight please! One hit. That's all I'm asking," Jeffery Kent begged the Atlanta Braves center fielder as he thought about the hefty bet he had riding on this game. $300 was more than he could afford, but he was certain his Braves could beat the Padres even though the game was in San Diego. "Come on baby, please! I need this one."

The pitcher lobbed a wicked breaking ball at the plate. Tremendous swing. Whiff! Strike two.

"Oh no, please no," Jeffrey pleaded. The bags were jammed. All the Braves needed was one hit. Jeffrey Kent needed a miracle and he was ready to ask for one.

His flat palms pressed together in prayer, clammy sweat glistening on each finger, and he whimpered, "Please. I'll do anything." And he would do anything to avoid telling his wife that he'd lost all their savings on a bet. . .again. She would kick him out this time, he was sure of it, and he couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't have anywhere to go, he'd lose his job, and all of his friends were actually her friends. Jeffrey would be alone. "One hit. That's all I'm asking."

The pitcher tossed some high heat. Big swing. Base hit! Braves win! Braves win!

"Yes! Thank you, thank you!" Jeffrey screamed as he jumped off his sofa and landed on his knees. Excitement surged through him and he leaned forward, kissing the dusty screen of his fourteen inch Sony.

Warm static crackled as he pressed his lips against the glass and when he pulled back, a svelte layer of dirt coated his peach lips.

Jeffrey.

"Huh," he intoned, looking around the apartment.

You made a promise. You said you'd do anything.

"What!" he muttered as the voice echoed through his skull.

You prayed to me. The Braves won, didn't they?

Dumbfounded, especially since he'd never believed in the Almighty, Jeffrey nodded. "Uh-huh."

Then it's time to pay. You did say anything.

"What do you want?"

It's very simple. I want sacrifices. Two. Two fingers. I don't care which.

Jeffrey's mouth gaped open, astonished, as one explanation resounded in his mind.

You're not crazy, Jeffrey. I delivered. Now it's your turn. Which two will it be?

He stared at his fingers, noticing the thick hairs above his second knuckles, and balled his hands into fists. "I can't do it. No way. I just can't."

I didn't say they had to be your fingers.

"Huh?"

You're wife, Jeffrey. She's asleep in the next room. Give me two of hers.

"No way," Jeffrey said without hesitation. "Uh-unh. No chance. I mean, like what can you do to me? You're in my head."

Pay up, Jeffrey.

"Fat chance."

Pay up!

"Or else what?"

Abruptly, the voice in his head silenced and Jeffrey Kent had a waking vision. Surreal grayness clouded his sight, but through the mist he saw an iron door with a rusted ring for a handle. It creaked open, revealing a sea of flames that brushed his hair back. The intensity bubbled his flesh like melting swiss, but in the middle of the firestorm, Jeffrey saw a man. He was tall, blonde hair, denim cap. And around his neck dangled a chain of withered thumbs and fingers.

Pay me, Jeffrey. Or else.

"Okay! Okay!" he screamed, shutting his eyes tight. When they opened again, Jeffrey gazed upon his contorted digits. They had curled into talons, malefic claws. I can't, he thought, but then he remembered the flames and that simpering man.

Jeffrey fled into the kitchen and retrieved a knife from the dishwasher. A bit of steak gristle still clung to the blade and he swallowed hard.

Pay me.

"I will. I am." Jeffrey took a deep breath and crept into the bedroom.

Laura had always been a sound sleeper. With any luck, he hoped, he could get two with one cut. Maybe before she woke up. . .he hoped.

***

In downtown Ithica, the Silver Screen theater--Ithica's closest thing to an arthouse--let out as the final credits of Stanley Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange rolled by to the melody of Singing in the Rain. The Silver Screen showed late night classics all summer, but drew paltry crowds. Three young Caucasians, all recent graduates of Ithica High, strolled out of the theater feeling rather shagged and fagged and tried to make up their razoodocks what do with the rest of the evening--or so they all envisioned themselves saying after watching that film. Fancying themselves a team of droogs, they brimmed with confidence bordering on arrogance. They walked shoulder to shoulder down the street, contemplating whether or not they should test their fake ID's at the Boar, when they passed two black men on the street. Alvin, the larger black man, brushed his shoulder against the youngest of the white men, Tommy. It was a casual gesture, tacitly implying that the three young men had taken up too much of the sidewalk strolling abreast.

Fucking nigger!

Alvin turned around and glared at the smaller white boy. "I don't believe you just said that!" he shouted menacingly, almost bumping chests with the kid.

But that's not what the three boys heard. To them, in their minds, this uppity colored had just called them white trash motherfuckers.

That's all it took. Before any of them had a chance to clarify or understand what had happened, a brawl spilled onto the street. The three boys had the numbers, but the two black men were bigger. By the time the donnybrook ended the carnage totaled: six broken fingers, a lacerated wrist, a broken jaw, and a fractured skull.

As the ambulance arrived, all five men vowed revenge.

***

Inside the small house at the end of Carter Street, Bob Leeman nodded furtively as the voice told him what to do with his wife's Poodle. He hated that fuzzy rat, always yapping and nipping at his heels. He wondered why he hadn't thought of this solution sooner.

Bob snatched Pooky off the floor, carried her into the kitchen, and flipped on the garbage disposal. As it whirred stridently, Bob giggled. Pooky's puffy cotton-ball tail fit perfectly through the sink's drain.

***

As soon as he left for his night shift at the Mapco convenience store on the corner of Fifth and Hillwood Road, Cary Ells, the assistant manager, listened to the voice that told him to load the shotgun hanging from the rack in the back of his truck. As he arrived at the Mapco, William Grand was filling his Explorer with unleaded. Cary got out of his Toyota, smiled at William--one of the Mapco's regular customers--and shot his kneecap off.

William screamed in agony, groping at the pulsating meat where his knee had been. His leg buckled and he grasped the gas hose to hold himself up. It didn't help. With the added weight, the nozzle fell out of the Explorer's gascap and sprayed ninety-three octane unleaded across the oily tarmac. It only took the gasoline a few seconds of traveling by the path of least resistance to reach the burning cigarette butt someone had dropped by the glass door of the Mapco Food Mart.

People four miles away felt the heat of the explosion.

***

Twelve year old Charlie House climbed the Magnolia tree in his mother's front lawn and loaded silver pellets into his pump action rifle. The plastic was molded to look like an AK-47, but Charlie only used it to shoot Magpies and Starlings. Until now.

He sat in the tree and shot out the windows of every car that drove by. He didn't understand why he did it or where the urge originated, but the voice in Charlie's head said it was okay. He shot at four different cars until his stepfather stumbled out of the house and fired three rounds with his Magnum.

He had to stop the boy, teach him a lesson. Kids can't go around shooting pellets for no good reason. He learned his lesson all right. The third bullet tore a hole in Charlie's chest large enough to pass a softball through.

The drunken stepfather forgot why he shot his stepson. When the police arrived, he explained that a shadow had whispered in his ear and told him to do it.

***

One of Fulton Brooks' neighbors, Gary Stimson, rolled back and forth across his waterbed as he struggled to reconcile Fulton's decree. He'd lived across the street from Fulton for eight years and he liked the guy. They'd shared barbecue and talked Georgia football many a night on his screened porch. He even understood Fulton's anger. Gary didn't have a son of his own, but he imagined what Fulton must be going through.

Despite his sympathy, he couldn't believe Fulton had asked the men of the neighborhood to arm themselves and form a mob. Who'd he think he was, Patton? Gary had more common sense. He knew that a group of black men stalking through the night with guns in their hands were likely to get shot or, if they were lucky, arrested.

Gary wasn't no fool, no sir. He wasn't about to get his butt shot off because some cracker beat up Teshawn Brooks. Let the police handle it. That was his opinion.

Yet, sleep eluded him. Gary felt certain he'd made the right decision, but doubt pestered his conscious. Like every other black man in Ithica, he was tired of being pushed around. He wanted to fight back, but he wasn't sure if Fulton's method was right. There had to be other, safer ways.

Then he heard the voice and his waterbed rippled as he stirred in distress. It told him what the whites would do to him if they ever found him walking home alone at night. It told him how the whites smiled to his face, but mocked him behind his back. Worst of all, it told him what they were doing right now. The voice showed Gary an army of white men, draped in rebel flags, marching through the streets of Ithica on Independence Day. The voice told him how this army would rape and slaughter every black woman they saw.

Straining for a breath of cool air, Gary jumped out of bed and slid on his trousers. He wondered if his handgun was still in the Nike shoebox that he kept in the closest? It was time to find out.

Fulton's solution didn't seem so ludicrous to him anymore.

***

Paul Shrenky settled into his recliner as the eleven o'clock news glowed to life on his twelve year old Magnavox. He'd bought it for a hundred and sixty dollars and the damn thing hadn't had a clear picture since the day the warranty ran out. Typical!

Beads of sweat clung to the beer can in his right hand and for a brief moment, Paul experienced a shred of guilt. He was a hundred pounds overweight and knew he shouldn't end the evening with a Schlitz. He should have laid on the floor and struggled through a set of five sit-ups. Instead, Paul leaned back in his recliner and pushed the can to his lips.

The blonde haired anchor was delivering the news this evening and Paul grumbled in disgust. "Sissy pretty boy." The anchor had perfect hair, teeth whiter than fresh snow, broad shoulders, and an expensive ash gray suit. Paul despised him. He was jealous. "Why does this sissy get all the breaks?" he asked himself.

"Because I don't sit on my fat ass all day," the anchor replied, smiling mechanically.

Paul blinked twice and glanced at his beer can. It was only his first of the evening.

"You're not hallucinating, lardass," the anchor explained.

Paul's eyes widened into saucers of disbelief. "I must be dreaming."

"You're not dreaming!" the anchor shouted, thrusting his palms flat against the news desk. He leaned forward menacingly and his face darkened. "Listen up, Paul. Are you sick of me calling you names?"

Baffled, Paul nodded.

"Are you sick of other people calling you names?"

He nodded again.

"I thought so. Now listen up!"

Only Paul wasn't the only one listening. Select individuals throughout Ithica, each of them harboring their own doubts and prejudices, watched the news and heard the same voice, but received a distinctly tailored message.

"Life isn't going to give you a free ride. It's dog eat dog and the only way to get ahead is to step on the people above you. Pull them down a few rungs. You have to claw your way past them, Paul. Women turn their noses up at you. Kids call you name when you waddle down the street. Rich people laugh at you. Niggers call you white trash. Are you going to take it anymore?"

Paul shook his head.

"Then get off your lazy ass. Grab an axe or a gun or a fucking frying pan for all I care and do something about it! Beat those assholes down and get ahead of them."

You're right, Paul thought fervently. As though he were rapt under a hypnotist's trance, Paul crawled off his recliner and followed the newsman's orders. It all made sense to him now and he couldn't believe he'd been so stupid for so long. With only a few words, the anchor had unclogged jammed pathways in his mind. Paul saw the road--the future--before him and he, like so many other people in Ithica at that moment, realized the one truth inherent in the Journeyman's vision of the world.

***

It was that simple for the Journeyman.

Goth tweaked them all to the boundaries of their primal instincts. In an overwhelming instant, he taught them the lesson he had learned eons ago: it is easier to destroy a thing than to build a thing. Taking a life required less responsibility than creating one. Destroying another person's spirit was easier than building your own. Tearing down a building was quicker than constructing one.

In Goth's mind, one truth was self-evident: chaos (destruction) was more powerful than order (life).

And it was more enticing. Goth savored the feeling of thousands of enraged voices resounding in his mind. His plan was working. The Journeyman felt their rage, the fury these puny humans had repressed. It was an incredible accumulation of latent entropy waiting for him to tap. And as he sat there, meditating on the dusty floor of the old theater, a watchful eye spying on the only three men who might dare to thwart him, Goth tasted victory. Finally, after so many years, he would win.

***

A sensational grogginess clouded Amy Stewart's mind as she opened her eyes sluggishly. Her long lashes intertwined, making it difficult to retract her lids, and when she finally saw the man before her, she wished she had never woken up. Ignoring the pain that seared through her abdomen and lower back--Amy had yet to fully comprehend that the actuality of what had happened to her--she watched intently. Tingling unreality set in, warping her perceptions, but she focused, concentrating as best she could. The Journeyman sat on the floor, his left profile facing her, as sparkling energy danced in his palm. Amy's eyes adjusted to the unusual brightness until she saw the source--the two blue spheres rotating in his hand.

***

Miles away, at the same National Weather Center that had detected the earlier phenomenon, a frantic technician checked the computers and the equipment for every flaw he could imagine. The readings weren't making any sense. The temperature in Ithica had risen another ten degrees in the last six minutes.

Chapter Twenty-Six: James' Choice

11:02 P.M.

Todd knelt on his left knee as he pulled the plaid shirt over the crumpled remains of the dead man's face. His tattered flesh had the consistency of raw hamburger and Todd couldn't stand to look at it any longer. They were all dead. It had happened so quickly that he couldn't remember exactly what had transpired. Had he bashed a man's skull in? He wasn't sure. He did, however, recall who had happened.

Cautiously, he glanced to his side. Baron had reverted to himself again. He sat on the ground, his legs crossed, curling long blades of blood stained grass around his fingers.

If he hadn't seen it, Todd wouldn't believe that this man, the one so fascinated with the roach in their jail cell, was capable of such violence. He'd seen that aspect of Baron twice now and he wasn't sure how he felt about it. Despite Todd's reticence, Baron had saved all their lives and Todd silently thanked him. Baron had kept him alive along enough to take his revenge. He still wanted it, tasted its salty potential on the back of his tongue. He thought: Whoever said revenge is sweet never tasted it.

Now that he'd seen Cletus, Todd yearned to watch his dying breath seep out of his lungs. Yet he also felt another urge. He wanted Goth.

"We have to go after him."

"Wh-Who?" James asked. It was the first word he'd uttered since the skirmish. He hadn't felt much like talking. There wasn't anything he could say that would change what had happened.

"Goth."

"You're n-nuts. L-Let it g-go, T-Todd. We have to t-t-tell the au-authorities."

"What authorities?" he shouted. "The same police that were nowhere to be found when my Linda died. The same police that threw us in jail for no reason. What do you think they'll do when they find us with the sheriff's corpse?"

James bowed his head. He didn't know, but he was confident someone would help them. Someone had to.

Todd marched across the grass and retrieved Sheriff Blaine's twelve gage. He wiped the barrel on his pants, leaving long shimmering streaks of blood. To James, the stains on the black cotton looked like water, nothing more.

Perhaps, he considered, that's all it is to Todd. Water, not blood.

Todd checked the shotgun. It was loaded and he slung it over his shoulder. "All I need is one good shot." He thought back to the hunting trips with the guys. He was the best shot out of the group. Even stoned he could hit a duck from a hundred and fifty yards away.

"That's cr-crazy," James retorted. "M-Maybe you and B-Baron don't s-s-sense it, b-but I d-d-do. There's some-something p-p-p-powerful about G-Goth. Something un-unatural."

"Jesus Christ!" Todd shouted in frustration. "I know what you're saying, but he's still a man! He smelled like a man and he breathed like a man and that means he bleeds. Whatever else he might be, and I'm not ready to speculate, he's flesh and blood right now and he deserves to die! You said it yourself! Goth had something to do with that Carrie girl's death. At the very least he knows something about it."

"Don't you th-think I know th-that!" James interrupted with equal vehemence. A raspy breath squeezed through his clenched throat and James wanted to break down and cry, if only for a few seconds. When he resolved to find Carrie's killer, he never expected it would go this far. In the last few hours he'd watched seven people die. James couldn't stand the thought of more blood.

"Why are y-you so r-ready to f-face G-Goth?" James wondered aloud. "I th-thought you wanted Cl-Cletus."

"I want them both," Todd answered, circling the valley as though he'd drunk a gallon of coffee and had too much energy to work off. He hadn't felt so electric since his using days. "This whole damn militia helped kill her! People like them, with no regard for human life, killed her! And I'm going to take both of them down, with or without your help," Todd declared and he pulled the rifle off his shoulder, gripping it with both sweaty hands.

"Wh-What about our p-p-plan?"

"That's your stinking plan."

"W-We should l-let p-p-professionals handle th-this."

"Yeah, they've done a great job so far," Todd complained sarcastically. "Look, do it your way if you want, but I'm going after them."

A gear suddenly snapped in James' head and he felt the steam rising off his brow. He couldn't believe what he was hearing; it was the ramblings of a bad cop in a cheesy movie. "Wh-What's your p-problem? Do y-you want t-to die?"

"Maybe!" Todd shouted with such tenacity that he really didn't leave any room for doubt. "But not before I take them out. Fuck them and fuck you! They killed my wife, every last redneck one of 'em, and I'm not resting until they're in the ground!"

James shook his head despondently, his fulsome anger gone. He'd hoped reason would win out over passion. "I kn-know how you f-feel. I th-think G-Goth had something to do w-w-with C-C-Carrie's death. I g-got reasons to h-hate him t-t-too, b-but we have to b-be smart. G-Goth has p-p-p-powers. It f-feels like he's w-watching us r-right now."

"Come on, James. He probably thinks we're dead and whatever he's done to our minds hasn't stopped us yet. You're the one who said he's afraid of us."

"James is right," a steady voice called out. James and Todd both looked at Baron. That serene voice they'd heard before the killing began. Baron's eyes glazed over and his lips didn't move. He had become a giant RCA speaker, molded to look like a person. The words floated out of his mouth. "Goth is the Journeyman and he is not of this world."

Todd rolled his eyes and shook his head. He trusted Baron, but he wasn't going to believe the deep voice of a retard that probably suffered from split personalities. Goth's a man, he told himself, despite the eerie sensations at the hotel or the voice cackling in his conscious. If it walks like a man, talks like a man, and kills like a man, then Todd was sure it was a man--or at least a close replica of one. Spooky illusions and voices aside, Todd remained confident that he could kill him.

Baron continued, "Goth is on the verge of his ultimate victory, achieving the goal he has always sought. If he is not stopped, the furies of chaos will spread to every corner of this world. Goth is duplicitous. He uses these human vessels, men like Cletus Watts, to accomplish his tasks, but they mean nothing to him. By dawn, the world will turn its eyes to Ithica and see the mayhem Goth has unleashed. Humans emulate one another. The chaos of Ithica will weaken the parapets of their minds. Humans are pliant and will yield to the chaos. It will take many years, but time means nothing to the Journeyman. Your concept of civilization will fall to his and an eon of darkness will cover the earth. Seas will boil, the ground will crack, and the Journeyman will stand above it all, relishing the havoc he begets.

"You must stop him. Goth has neared the final victory, all of his pieces are in place, but he has overlooked vital details. There is a chance, albeit a small one, to stop him. If he does not realize his mistakes, you may stand a chance against him."

"Wh-What has h-he overl-l-looked?"

"I cannot know. The Journeyman's mind is so vast that he forgets easily. Arrogance is his imperfection. In his mind, victory is a foregone conclusion. Thus, he is vulnerable. Quickly, you must go now and stop him, for as the midnight hour approaches, Goth nears success. The Journeyman is coming." Exhaling a deep breath, Baron blinked twice, wiping the glaze from his eyes, and grinned crookedly. "Baron will help, shoo yeah." He was himself again.

James and Todd glanced at each other apprehensively. "B-Baron, do y-you re-remember what y-you just s-said?"

"Sure. I want to help."

"Why do you want to help?" Todd asked, trying to discern what they had witnessed. The multiple personality explanation didn't seem quite right to him anymore. Something had entered Baron, but drifted away on the wind.

"Because we have to stop Him."

"Why?"

"Just because," Baron answered childishly. He didn't need a reason. A voice in his mind, not Goth's, told him it was right and Baron's daddy always taught him to do what was right, shoo yeah.

Todd leered at James and shook his head doubtfully. "I still don't believe all this paranormal mumbo jumbo, but I got my own reason for wanting Goth. I don't give a shit what power he might have. Unless he can stop a bullet, he's as good as dead."

The choice was left for James. Todd and Baron had cast their dye and he was the last to remain. The first of them to start down this winding road stood in an abandoned field and closed his eyes. He saw Carrie in his mind. She was as radiant as she had appeared the first night he met her. He wondered if she knew about Goth? Maybe that knowledge killed her or perhaps, as Goth said, her death was meaningless. Either way, James wanted to know. He had to know because if he didn't, he may as well have run away this morning as the sheriff had suggested. He'd started down the long highway and he wanted to see the end. He'd passed the point of no return.

Rubbing the tense skin along the back of his neck, James mumbled, "Jeez, did I p-pick the wr-wrong t-time to st-stand up f-for myself." He looked at Baron and Todd. Resolve twinkled in their stern eyes and James exhaled a deep breath. "I'm in."

"Good. Now, where do we find Goth?"

"H-He mentioned s-s-some place called P-Palmer as he and Cl-Cletus l-left. B-Baron, do you kn-know wh-where that is?"

He nodded slowly. "Shoo yeah. Palmer field is a couple miles from here on the outside of town. It's up on a hill, but the field is flat. I think they're having their rally there tonight."

"H-How do y-you know th-that?"

Baron shrugged his shoulders. "I just know."

"Can you lead us there?" Todd asked, gripping Baron's shoulder firmly.

"Shoo yeah."

"Good. If it's a couple miles we can be there before midnight. James, what do you think this rally is for?"

"It's n-not a tailg-gate p-p-party. Wh-Whatever Baron w-warned us ab-bout, it m-must start th-there."

"Then let's move it. We don't have a lot of time."

"What are we going to do when we get there?" Baron asked.

Todd's eyes flashed to James. He was bewildered, almost doleful. "You're the one who comes up with the plans."

"Yeah, I g-guess so," James said reluctantly. So far his plans had almost gotten him killed and eaten alive. The wound on James' chest flared up and he rubbed the stinging skin. He hated to think their success and, if Baron was right, the fate of everybody, depended on one of his poorly thought out plans. "I'll th-think of s-something," James said and they ran deeper into the night.

He struggled to sound reassuring, but deep down, James had no idea what to do next.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Conduits

11:22 P.M.

The truck rumbled across the dirt road, shaking the pick-up's bed, and the powerful roar of Curt's Firebird revved behind it. Shivers of pain ricocheted through Cletus' wiry body with each bump, cascading through his bony legs and piercing as deep as his ribs. He didn't let the pain show on his face. Not that it mattered. The Journeyman sensed it.

He sat across the bed of rusted pick up, his eyes never leaving Cletus' scowling face. Amy Stewart, bound to the wooden frame with a gray tarp draped over her, was the only thing separating them. If the bulky obstruction wasn't there, Cletus might have lunged out and strangled Goth's throat. He imagined choking the life out of him and pushing him over the side of the speeding truck. He could call it an accident, a bad spill as they hit a pothole. Benny and Curt might notice from the car behind them, but they would fall back into line with Goth dead. They were afraid of Cletus. Everyone was except Goth.

Goth simpered arrogantly, licking his lips. He didn't need his powers to sense the enmity in Cletus' heart. The dark furrows lining Cletus' eyes was evidence enough, but the Journeyman saved some hope for him. He could be changed, molded into a fine lieutenant. Goth leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and asked jovially, "You still don't like me very much, do you Cletus?"

He didn't answer.

Straightening his posture, Goth reached into his pocket and removed the spheres. Immediately, his hand began to rotate them. A musty fetor filled both of Cletus' nostrils and he wondered what else Goth hid in those pockets. Everything about him reeked of age and decay like the dry wooden smell of a cobwebbed attic. "You shouldn't hate me, Cletus."

"You took the Lodge. Another man tried to do that once. I took care of him."

"Gene Wood was a weakling," Goth interjected.

Cletus' eyes widened solemnly. How does he know about Gene Wood?

"I know everything about you Cletus." Though not even Goth had foreseen what Cletus eventually did to Gene. A stroke of brilliance in Goth's opinion. He never imagined Cletus was capable of such deplorable torture. "Such great potential. You think I stole the Lodge from you, but I gave it to you."

"Bullshit."

"You still refuse to accept the truth. I planted the seed for the Lodge in your head. You're the dirt Cletus."

"You didn't plant shit."

"You should really work on your vocabulary," Goth quipped as the spheres rotated more quickly. The musty scent crawled down Cletus' throat and he gagged. "We're peas in a pod, you and I. That's why I chose you, Cletus." Goth leaned closer, speaking from the black shriveled mass he called a heart. He honestly wanted Cletus to understand. The Journeyman had reserved a place for him in the coming new order. Abruptly, Cletus' gagging ceased and the air smelled sterile like a cleaned bathroom. "I saw the potential in you."

"What's that?" Cletus asked, breathing cautiously.

"The potential to hate. You're similar to me, Cletus. Neither of us harbors any prejudices. We hate everyone and everything equally. Our enmity doesn't discriminate. That quality is rare in humans. All humans have some prejudices against some people. I'm counting on it."

"Huh?" Cletus mumbled.

"Pay attention. You might actually learn something," Goth intoned with frustration. The spheres abruptly crackled with the faintest hints of energy, blue sparks that faded into the sky. "You and I, Cletus. We will rule the coming chaos. Have faith that prejudice is stronger than compassion. Deep inside their hearts, whether they admit to it or not, every person hates. Old people fear young people. Whites hate blacks. Blacks hate Asians. Sons despise fathers. Jews hate Muslims. Feminists detest patriarchs. Serbs loathe Croats. The fabric of this reality is bound together by hatred. But those bonds are frail, rotted to the core. The fabric is decaying; a fine cloth mildewed and chewed up by cemetery worms. Tonight, I set off a chain of events to destroy it all, unleash the hatred."

The spheres resonated at a high pitched frequency inaudible to Cletus' ears, but he saw the bow. A stream of purple energy, a psychic riptide, spread outward from Goth's hand. It flashed brilliantly, shimmering with reflective white streaks and then faded away.

Narrowing his eyelids, Cletus studied Goth. The Journeyman appeared lost, caught in a dream, and his eyes gazed into the distance. Cletus' curiosity piqued. He rubbed his chin and carefully selected his words, "How we gonna start the hatred?"

"It begins in Ithica, in fact it has already begun, but all the world will see it."

"Hell naw. Ithica's barely on the map. Only time anyone is gonna look here is when the Lodge starts the revolution."

Goth rolled his eyes, a parent bemused by the folly of a child. "Still the babe. You think in terms of replacing one order with another. Such an approach is doomed to fail. Chaos will prevail and the world will watch."

"How?" Cletus asked.

"Right now, news agencies and papers all across the South are receiving press releases telling them of a horrible catastrophe in the tiny town of Ithica. They'll try to call for confirmation, but their phones will inexplicably receive a busy signal. A team of CNN reporters from Atlanta will complain that they don't want to cover a story on Independence Day, but their boss, listening to a voice in the back of his head, will insist. By dawn, reporters and cameras will line the streets of Ithica, showing the world the power of prejudice."

"So fuckin' what," Cletus griped, silently admonishing himself for entertaining Goth's delusions. The day CNN came to Ithica was the day he acquired a ballistic missile and unless the Lodge had worked fastidiously behind his back, Cletus guessed they didn't have any firepower stronger than a repeating rifle. "People see shit on TV every day. Don't mean they're gonna do anything."

"Wrong again, Cletus. Your paltry vision is too narrow. As families gather for the holiday, they will watch the riots and killing unfold on their televisions and they'll discuss their own hatreds and prejudices. Families don't like each other--you know a thing or two about that phenomenon, don't you Cletus--and the tension pouring through their televisions will exacerbate their own prejudices. Family members will chose sides, debate their own hatreds, and despise each other by the end of the day."

"Load of crap," Cletus opined. "Families fight all the time. Then they go back to work and forget about it."

"You never forgot the things your father did and said to you."

Cletus turned his face and held back a reservoir of venomous hatred. He didn't appreciate it when people mentioned his father.

"These arguments will be different." The spheres crackled audibly as dots of white energy, wiggling spermatozoa, dove into the air. "Agitation will become heightened. Conscious will egg them on, urging them to defend their prejudices. And they will. They'll go to any length to prove they are right and the hatreds flaming in Ithica will spill over to the rest of the country. Furious people will succumb to their primal urges and fight back, emulating the violence of Ithica. Soon, the rest of the world will look to the United States, the last superpower, and they will mimic us. Once the first bonds of hatred are broken, the rest will follow suit. A chain reaction of building intensity will rip this world apart. Violence begets violence and chaos begets chaos on a monumental scale. Then I shall rise from the destruction."

Goth glowered at Cletus. Stoicism hid his utter contempt. Cletus knew Goth was insane, but he was dangerous and, for the moment, in control. "That's a brilliant plan."

Goth pulled his neck back and focused on Cletus' wry smile. He snickered. "You don't lie very well, but you'll soon see the truth. Trust me, Cletus. Your hatred is natural, but when the new epoch begins, you'll see that I am right. My kindred spirit should share the glory that begins tonight. Stand on stage with me and your mind will succumb to the chaos." The spheres sparkled brilliantly as Cletus clawed at his forehead. A sensation burrowed behind his eyebrows and he felt a stabbing pain as though he'd drunk a cold beer too fast. The pain dulled swiftly and Cletus felt an entirely different sensation. He desperately wanted to destroy something, anything.

Cletus recoiled beneath his mask of stoicism and settled comfortably into the steel bed of the truck. "I'll stand right behind you, Goth."

Count on it.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Rally

11:42 P.M.

A narrow treeline traced Palmer field on its east side. Hedges of prickly evergreens and plump weeds sprung out of the ground in vast clumps. The arbors were old and tall, their branches hovering fifteen feet off the ground, and the hedges stood low like scrub brush in a desert. It wasn't much camouflage, but for James Hall it was enough. He crept along the edge of the field, amazed at the sheer numbers of the Lodge.

There must be at least three hundred men. At least!

James was right. 318 men huddled around bonfires and cheered excitedly as Austin Goth stepped onto the wooden stage. Cold slivers of permafrost pierced James' chest when he saw the Journeyman and he crouched lower, praying the tree shadows and shrubs camouflaged him. The crowd stamped their feet in unison, the harbinger of a marching army, as Goth extended his arms in a victory sign. Their fervor was palpable and James tasted it in the back of his nose, tickling his sinuses. His stomach automatically clenched to hold back any vomit.

There's too many of them! Jesus, how could I anticipate so many? This is never gonna work!

His heart throbbed through his chest like a bass drum and James wiped a sheet of sweat off his forehead.

Got to get a hold of myself. Baron and Todd are waiting for my signal. Come on, get it together.

A horrible idea burst into James' mind. What if he abandoned them? Todd and Baron were in position. If he turned tail and ran, would they go on without him? He knew Todd would. The steady furor in his voice exposed his determination. Todd didn't care if they all died so long as he got one clear shot at Goth and Cletus. He frightened James almost as much as Goth and again he considered running. If Todd wanted to die, let him. James was young and still had so many plans. He wanted to meet a girl, buy a house near the ocean, and settle down. Maybe become a writer. He'd always had an easier time with written rather than spoken words.

Go ahead and flee.

But he didn't run and James expunged the idea from his head. The threesome on the stage quickly erased any doubts lingering in James' head. Goth marched back and forth, energizing the crowd with his presence. Cletus stood behind him, nodding like a toy with a coiled spring neck. It was the third person, the girl, however, that solidified James' determination. He couldn't run and leave her there. She hung limply from a wooden cross turned a quarter degree to look like an x. She was nude, grimy sweat and dirt covering her bruised body, and James felt his glands swell underneath his chin like a sponge. He was going to be sick.

"Our time is at hand!" Goth declared and he glanced toward the trees along the eastern edge of the field. James dove behind a shrub, certain Goth's eyes had met his.

But that's impossible, he reminded himself. He thinks we're dead.

On stage, Goth smiled, his glare lingering for a few seconds. Then his eyes darted back to the crowd and he reached into his pocket. James' vision narrowed as he peered between the branches of a sagebrush. Something glistened in Goth's hand. Two spheres, perfect blue balls that absorbed the moonlight and amplified it a thousand times. They were captivating, more radiant than a setting sun melting its reflected image atop the ocean.

The zeal of the Lodge members rose to a new intensity. Breaking his eyes away from the captivating spheres, James gawked at the crowd. Latent anger billowed from them like mist rising off a lake. Baleful fury glinted in their eyes and James realized that something had happened. They'd changed from a crowd into a mob; a furious congregation, the incited fans at many a Doors concert. Somehow, Goth had made them more intense, more willing to destroy. Quickly, James' eyes focused again on Goth. His face was as black as coal with two yellow dots floating in the sea of ebony. The spheres coruscated wildly.

"Get up!" a menacing voice called out.

James circumspectly turned his head. The single barrel of a rifle bared down on his forehead and James raised his hands reluctantly. "Who the hell are you?" the guard asked. Spit flew into James' face as he yelled.

Rising to his feet slowly, James rejoined, "Who the h-hell are y-you?"

"What?" the man shouted and James shuddered a meek breath. Fortunately, the guard wasn't any larger than him, but he had the gun and James began to rethink his spur of the moment plan. "You got three seconds to tell me what you were doing back here before I blow you a new mouth." A black cap concealed the guard's face, but James saw his lips quiver. The poor kid was as scared as him.

"T-Taking a sh-shit," James answered, pushing the barrel of the gun away.

The man jumped back, the rifle shimmying in his hands. "Wh-What?"

"I h-had to d-dump," James answered nonchalantly and then took a step toward the crowd. "C-Come on. We g-gotta get back to the r-rally."

For a moment, James almost thought his scheme would work. It didn't. "Unh-unh," the man intoned and a cold sweat hatched on James' neck. He swallowed hard and turned around, trusting that a gunshot to the chest was a quick and painless death. He doubted it.

"Show me the sign," the man demanded as he took aim at James' skull.

"Wh-What?"

He grunted, spitting into the dirt. "If you're Lodge, you'll know the sign." His right eye narrowed behind the firing sight and James' hands trembled.

He remembered Carrie and the rictus that had spread across his appalled face when he discovered her body this morning. He wondered if she died the same way, groveling before an executioner that demanded a ridiculous sign.

A sign! It dawned on him suddenly and James closed his eyes. If this didn't work he didn't want to see the flash of powder as the rifle splattered his head across Palmer field.

Balling his fists, James raised both arms and crossed his chest with an x.

The guard's eyes widened and a steamy breath crept out of his lips. He lowered the rifle. "Thank God," he mumbled, pulling his cap off to reveal a young face. Splotches of erupting acne dotted his forehead like a Pacific island chain. The kid was only sixteen. "Goth told us to keep our eyes open for intruders, but hell, I ain't never fired a rifle."

"I h-hear ya," James muttered. His jaw quivered with relief and he checked the front of his pants for any urine stains. Thankfully, he had controlled his bladder.

"Yeah, only handguns so far. Come on, man. We better get back with the others."

James nodded and lunged forward, straightening the arms crossing his chest. His fists joined together into one large bludgeon and before the kid knew what had hit him, his nose crunched softly under the savage punch. He wobbled backward, blood and saliva choking him, and landed on his knees. James stepped forward, raising his knee, when their eyes met. The kid's baby blues stared at him in shock. He couldn't believe what had happened and neither could James. It was just a kid, younger than him, and he recalled sheriff Gaddis. He'd struck him while he was down. James didn't want to repeat that moment, even if he was on the winning side this time.

His knee lowered and the kid's eyes widened, becoming frying pans cooking eggs sunnyside down. The bloodshot whites around his irises expanded and a truculent urge infected James' mind. It was savage, breaking down the bonds of his inhibitions, and he raised his knee. A flash of white brilliance glittered at the corner of his peripheral vision as James sucked down a deep breath.

He drove the knee into the kid's bloody face. The broken nose popped against the other cheek as the orbital bone in his left eye socket shattered. As blood dribbled out of his mouth, the kid slumped to the ground unconscious. His limp body sprawled across the dirt and James' chest heaved.

Jesus, why did I do that!

He turned around and Goth's eyes met his. For a brief second, Goth looked at him and the spheres in his hand flashed like heat lightning jumping from one cloud to another. Shivers covered James' body and he fell to the ground, landing on his butt with a dull thud.

Something's wrong with me, he thought as he rubbed his cold arms up and down.

His body numbed completely and he wanted to pull his knees to his chest in a fetal position. Again, he glanced at the poor kid.

Why'd I hit him that hard?

Regrettably, James knew the answer.

It's Goth. He made me do it.

James hadn't heard the Journeyman in his head, but when their eyes met, he knew it was him. Only the Journeyman could engender such ferocity.

"Rise up and set loose the furies of chaos!" Goth urged and the militia cackled stridently. James turned his head and stared at them in amazement. It had to be mass hypnosis, he decided. How else could Goth sway so many people? "Now is the time for vengeance against everyone who has held you down. Strike out against the young and the old! Crush the mongrel races that infest our sacred land! Wipe out the unenlightened religions that worship false Gods! Now is our time! Crush the system and tomorrow will bring a new day. Our era has arrived. Take to the streets of Ithica. Your enemies are there and you cannot sit idly by while they assault you. The time for passivity is over! Fight now and kill them all!"

"Yes! Now! Now!" members of the enthralled audience screamed. Horror crept into James' mind as he watched. The militiamen's eyes didn't blink as they stared at Goth. He had rapt them in an idea, playing on their fears and prejudices.

That's his strength, James realized. Goth takes a man's fear and shoves it in his face. He nurtures men and turns them to his side.

"Tonight we strike!" Goth cackled. A maniacal laugh rolled off his tongue as his spheres spun into a blur of energy.

Two men broke through the crowd and lowered their heads before Goth at the base of the stage. A camcorder rested on one of their shoulders and Goth nodded to them. The red recording light flared on. Goth sauntered next to the captive woman.

Don't touch her! James raged in silence and he fought off the urge to rush onto the stage. Rushing in was suicide.

"All the world loves a virgin. It may be cliche, but cliche is what appeals to the masses," Goth whispered in Amy's ear and he motioned to Cletus. He stepped forward, unfurling a dirt stained white bedsheet. Four fire axes tumbled to the stage, their echoing clang rumbled across the valley. "Wait until the world sees what we do to you. Their sensibilities will shatter like stained glass. Their moral compass will collapse." Goth smirked at his men and licked his lips temptingly. "I need four volunteers. One for each appendage."

"No! Don't listen!" Amy screamed hoarsely.

Goth turned to her. "The eyes of the world will gawk at Ithica and I will give them something to see. A spectacle to break new ground. Nothing will inflame their passions more than seeing a virgin flayed. Don't worry, my dear. We'll leave enough of you for them to know you were pure."

"Please, you can't!" Amy muttered and an eerie silence fell across the crowd.

Most of the men on Palmer field were misogynists that had quietly fantasized about bonded women and acts of savage brutality against the female body, but they never imagined Goth would go this far. This wasn't a dark fantasy anymore. It was one thing to shoot a nigra, or a woman for that matter, but hacking a girl to bits? The Rebel Lodge didn't have this in mind when they agreed to follow him.

"Wait a second, man," Benny called out from the middle of the crowd. "She's just a girl. Do we have to do this? We don't, do we? I mean, we can something else, man."

Goth peered down on them, crossing his arms on the thick leather of his jacket. "No. We don't have to, but we want to. You want to, Benny."

"Hell no!" he shouted. "I'm not touching one of those axes."

Deep down, you all want to. I know you do.

Goth opened his palm flatly and the dancing white light flashing between his spheres exploded. Tendrils of energy flowed into the crowd. Ohhs and ahhs preceded their gasps as the fulsome effervescence filled every pore of their bodies. They felt his essence enthralling them and their hearts beat faster. The heat began to build, latent fire that dwelled in the darkest regions of their souls. Goth knew how to entice them. The spirit has a limbic region of its own.

You know you want to.

"Yes! Do it!" Benny shouted. His pupils had shrunk to the size of pinpoints and a greedy simper cracked his lips. They all wanted to. None of them knew why, but they had to see it. Now, their souls belonged to Goth, without question or defiance.

"Oh please God, don't listen to him!" Amy screamed meekly. It was too late. Clawing hands groped at the edge of the stage, every man begging to be one of the executioners. "Don't listen to him! Somebody help me! Help me please!"

James took a step forward, his leg quivering. They would kill him before he reached the stage and he knew it. There was no way he could save her, but there was no way he could stand by and watch it happen, either. His knees buckled and he landed on the ground, paralyzed with the kind of primal fear he hadn't felt since he was eight and afraid to go to sleep with the lights off.

Got to do something! Can't just sit here! he scolded himself, but his legs wouldn't budge. It was useless. There was nothing he could do but cover his face and cry.

"Nooo!" a strained voice called out. James' eyes opened suddenly and he jumped to his feet. That scream had cured his paralysis. It was Baron, across the field, charging toward the stage. He was out of his mind, hair flapping madly in the wind, and blood-red fury swelling in his eyes. The beast inside his soul was loose. Perhaps unleashed by Goth, James pondered.

He rushed toward the stage, to certain death, and James couldn't wait any longer. Screw the plan! He had to do something and he grabbed the rifle off the guard. The safety was on and he didn't know how to fire it, but James didn't care. A branch rustled and leaves scattered as he sprung forth, emerging from the treeline with an expression distinct from Baron's.

James didn't look angry. He was scared pale.

***

Blazing red fury filled Baron's eyes, like looking at the world through bottles of cranberry juice, and he seethed anger. He saw the girl and a whisper on the wind told him what Goth planned to do to her. It told Baron what he'd already done to Amy. It was bad. It wasn't right to hurt innocent girls, shoo no. Goth was bad, Baron was sure of it. He'd tried to hurt him and his new friends, he'd stuck his thing up that poor girl's backside, and Goth wanted to destroy Ithica, his home. Glimpses of roaring fires and mangled bodies filled Baron's thoughts. That's what Goth wanted; to maim everything that moved.

"Nooo!" Baron screamed and he rushed toward the stage. His feet left deep impressions in the soft earth until he'd accelerated to an all out rumble. Silvery tunnels stretched out from his eyes and the Journeyman sparkled at the far end like the headlights of a tractor-trailer. Other men jumped in the way, but Big Paws knocked them to the ground without breaking stride. He focused on Goth and the Journeyman turned to face him.

Come on Big Paws!

Goth crouched low to the stage--a serpent hiding among the tall reeds--and held his hands out. He waved Baron forward, his lips curling to reveal teeth stained crimson.

"I got 'im," Cletus muttered and he pulled his gun from the back of his pants.

"Put that away," Goth said sedately.

"Fuck that. You screwed up once. Why ain't he already dead?" Cletus had played the lap dog long enough. The fervent impulses in his mind yearned for control. As Goth decimated the bonds in other men's minds, Cletus' lifelong mantra became reinforced. He had to take charge again, if only for an instant.

"Put the gun down."

"Bite it, Goth. If you want me as a lieutenant, you better get used to this." Cletus took aim at Baron's head.

"No!" Goth yelled, swatting the gun from his feeble grasp. Cletus' skin stung where Goth struck him and he pressed his nose against the burning hand. It reeked of sulfur. He stumbled backward, his head spinning, and landed on his back in a daze. "He's mine!" Goth growled, his eyes focusing on Baron.

The raised stage hovered three feet off the ground and Baron leapt it in one bound. Adrenaline surged through his muscles and he licked an acrid scum off the roof of his mouth. Goth straightened before him, standing tall, and he stared into Baron's chin. An insolent grin flashed across his face, daring Baron to throw the first punch. He did.

Reaching back with all his strength, Baron slung his right palm at Goth's head. It smacked the side of his face with a rubbery sound, flesh on flesh. Crumbling, Goth fell to both knees and Baron sucked in a steamy gulp of air. It inflated his lungs, his expanding chest reminiscent of a monstrous gorilla from a nature documentary, and Baron wailed an anguished scream. Ears across the field shuddered before the roar and when he ran out of breath, Baron stared at the fallen creature around his feet.

Goth smiled defiantly. He looked up at Baron, wiping a runnel of blood that had gushed out of his nose and across his lips. A guttural snicker emanated from his lips. "Is that all the turtle can throw against me?" The spheres in his hand crackled with renewed vigor. Long strands of the Journeyman's blood that had splattered across the lumber stage began to fizzle like water on a hot griddle. The tiny streams danced and shimmered brightly, moving uniformly, straightening into tendrils that suddenly recoiled and melded into a shape all too familiar to Baron.

"Still afraid of snakes?" the Journeyman asked.

"N-No. No! Get away!" Baron screamed. The fiery intensity vanished from his eyes and he was himself again, leering into the viper's pit. "No snakes! Shoo no, not the snakes!" he cried fervently. The rivulets of blood peeled off the stage and cobra hoods grew around their heads. Diamond shaped eyes glistened in their skulls and the snakes wrapped themselves around Baron's ankles. He stumbled backward a step, approaching the front of the stage, and waved his legs like a bear caught in an ankle trap. "Get off! No! Get off!"

The snakes hissed angrily, spitting bloody venom at Baron's eyes and he shrieked like a two-year-old. His mouth stretched open in complete horror as his eyes slitted.

Please Lordy, don't let the snakes bite me! Baron prayed and when the salty tears streamed out of his eyes, the snakes were gone. Oh thank you.

"Don't thank him," Goth said. He was on his feet again, standing inches away from Baron's cerise neck. "Thank me." Faster than the light from a flashbulb reaching the eye, Goth wrapped his hand around Baron's bloated throat. Every finger contracted and Baron gagged. He clutched at Goth's hand, scraping away streamers of flesh with his shredded fingernails, but the Journeyman didn't bleed. His grip tightened and Baron's eyes bulged like gobs of toothpaste squeezing out of a tube. Vitreous fluid seeped through tiny fissures in his eyes, over his eyelashes as Baron expelled his bowels.

Soupy darkness covered Goth's fingers and his hand became opaque. Lurking malevolence danced inside his flesh and spilled beyond the epidermis. Fingers lengthened into claws, each one a foot long without knuckles. They warped around Baron's throat like plastic melting into a mold, constricting his neck until Baron's pallid tongue popped out of his mouth and dangled across his chin. A final gurgle rose to his lips, followed by a shimmering bubble of blood and saliva. The final crack of his vertebrae was superfluous. Baron was already dead before his gigantic body slumped over the side of the stage.

When his corpse struck the ground, the field shuddered as though a giant had fallen out of the Smoky Mountains. In the end, however, Baron was nothing more than a man.

The ebony fingers retracted into Goth's skin, slithering eels swimming into their underwater lairs. The Journeyman's blood leapt back into his flesh, absorbed by the skin, leaving no evidence that he had ever bled a drop. The men cheered raucously as Baron's body crumbled to the ground. Their leader, their master, had claimed victory and he relished their intensity, but only for a moment. There were still other matters to deal with.

Goth spun around on the toes of his boots and snorted through his nose. "You never were fast enough, little James," he said as he stared down at the retard, cowering with Amy at the corner of the stage.

***

James was half way to the stage before he fully grasped what he was doing. Charging at Goth was not part of the plan, but neither was Baron supposed to rush the stage from the other side. A few seconds ago, James had watched him fight through the crowd, but the giant had disappeared behind a sea of people. As he charged out of the trees, James' eyes scanned across the field. Everyone's attention had turned to Baron.

This might actually work, James began to believe as he neared the edge of the stage. Approaching it surreptitiously, he clutched the rough edge of the wooden planks, letting the rifle slide to the ground, and pressed his chest against his knuckles. He whistled softly. Too softly. The girl hadn't heard him. "Hey," he whispered.

Her neck rolled over like a wet noodle, but a flash of terror danced in her eyes. Her head leveled and she inflated her lungs with a desperate gasp. "No, don't," James whispered frantically. A bony finger covered his pursed lips and he shook his head, waving his hair in the wind. Agony pierced the length of his leg and he was again aware of the painful blister on his foot. All of his injuries burned, but James ignored them as best he could. He stared at the girl and she looked back at him with wide, frightened eyes.

Real stupid! She probably thinks I'm one of the men come to grab an axe and start chopping.

Nibbling on his lower lip, James leaned closer and mumbled, "D-Don't worry. I-I-I'm here to h-help."

Instead of an answer, tears dribbled off Amy's chin, pattering lightly on the stage. James didn't know if she was happy, sad, frightened, or simply exhausted.

James pressed his palms against the stage, driving a loose splinter deep into the skin below his thumb, reminding him of the pain. Both his leg and chest flared in unison as the muscles in his jaw tightened. Wincing, he pushed off the ground, swinging his right leg onto the stage. His boot landed with a thud. The sinews on Amy's neck popped out and they both peered across the stage. Apparently, Goth hadn't heard it. He was on the ground, bleeding, with Baron standing over him.

Holy shit! He's winning! Baron's beating him!

James hadn't thought it possible. A dark liquid, James assumed it was blood, had fallen from the Journeyman's nose. Though he savored the moment, a disturbing thought flooded James' mind. Why weren't the Lodge members doing anything? Hundreds of loyal followers watched like zombies as Baron pummeled their leader. James studied them, noting the rapture in their eyes. Goth had captivated them, energized their anger and hatred, but still corralled them so they wouldn't dare move.

What's he done to them?

"The rope," Amy whispered and James blinked twice, shaking his head of any lingering cobwebs. This was no time for hesitation. He clawed at the thick bands holding her wrists and ankles in place. Frayed slivers of twine tore apart under his fingernails. Bloodless white splotches rose on his skin as he pressed harder. Finally, the knots loosened and fell to the stage. Amy writhed in agony, contorting her mouth into a continuous scream of silence, as her muscles flamed with returning sensations. It pained her to bend her elbows and knees. Her back crinkled stridently like squashed aluminum foil as her spine bent for the first time in hours. The numbness wore off quickly and she collapsed into James' arms. He slipped off his red corduroy button up and wrapped it around her.

"Thank you," she mumbled, her body quivering like a puppy caught in its first snowfall.

"Who are y-you?"

"Amy Stewart. They came for me in the woods. Please, we have to get away."

"W-We will," James answered, though he had no idea how.

"Now," she insisted with unexpected ardor. Amy's strength slowly returned to her limbs and she pulled the shirt over both her shoulders. "You don't understand what he is! We have to leave right now."

"You never were fast enough, little James."

James looked up and his tired, hungry body melted into exhaustion. Goth stood across from them, every sign of injury vanished, and Baron lay on the ground dead.

"B-Baron," James whimpered. He was number eight. Another victim of this insane day.

"No tears now, James," Goth said, stepping closer to them. His spheres crackled with kinetic energy and the crowd taunted them. Caterwauls of 'bitch' and 'faggot' resounded from the mob. Goth lapped up their emotion, their zeal, as he stared down at James, disappointment in his eyes. His head shook back and forth briskly and he grinned that wretched simper; darkness surrounding rows of glistening teeth-needles. "Trying to escape with my prized pig. Sorry little James, she's part of the show. You'll have to put her back, but I'll make you a deal. After we saw her legs off, I'll let you sodomize the remains. Trust me, don't knock it til you've tried it."

"Fuck you," Amy snarled. She wasn't yielding that easily.

Goth's lips spread apart and his eyebrows scrunched together. He seemed appalled. "Such language from an immaculate woman. Have you ever heard such a foul mouth, James? No, I suppose you haven't. Not since Carrie died."

"You k-k-killed h-her!" James abruptly accused.

Goth shook his head. "You still don't get it." A ripple of crimson effervescence crept out of the spheres and Goth's eyes widened with alertness. He jumped as though someone had just shoved an electrode onto one of his testicles and gasped for air. Then the smile returned. "Well, I see Mr. Bundy has finally decided to make his appearance."

The strident blare of a gunshot cut through the air. Two more bullets immediately followed.

***

Todd had shed his vest and had wiped long streaks of dirt across his face just in case someone at the rally had seen him before. Granules of earth clung to his stubble, dark circles coloring his eyes. He kept his brow low and grunted in agreement with whatever anyone said to him. Other men slapped him on the back and he occasionally shook his shotgun above his head. Overall, he fit right in. Nobody at the rally knew him from any other Lodge member. It was dark despite the orange glow of the bonfires and he blended nicely with the enraged crowd.

Goth had done something to them, tweaked their anger somehow. Todd didn't understand how he did it, but he was among the men and he felt the power himself. A wave of fury had consumed them, bringing out their inherent anger and the raucous rally had quickly degenerated into a violent mob. Todd tasted the yearning in the air like sweet honeysuckle. They wanted to kill. They wanted to destroy.

He's blood and flesh, he reminded himself. Goth's just a man.

Todd wanted to believe that.

He panicked and searched the crowd for any sign of James. He didn't see him, but he prayed the little guy was watching this unfold. They hadn't anticipated Goth tweaking the militia to a fever pitch and he wasn't very confident their plan would succeed--if he ever believed in it in the first place.

"Nooo!" he heard Baron scream and all bets were off.

It's not the distraction we planned, but I guess it will suffice, Todd decided and he weaved his way through the crowd. Most of the militiamen were of average size and Todd kept one eye on the meandering path between enthralled men and the other eye on Baron. They sniggered angrily, shaking their fists, as Baron charged the stage.

What the hell is he thinking? They'll tackle him before he gets within thirty feet!

But they didn't. A few men moved to stop him, but the majority stood by and watched. They had become clockwork toys. Goth had wound the key, but hadn't released them yet. He was saving them for the events to come.

Todd pushed men aside as he bounced between the rows. They groaned and pushed back, but didn't lift a finger to stop him. Baron was on top of the stage now and he ran faster. Todd wanted to get the best position possible for the shot. He couldn't afford to miss. He assumed he'd only get one chance.

What would that maniac do if he caught us? Tie us up like that girl or feed us to this pack of wolves he's breeding. Maybe he'd do us the old fashioned way, a clean bullet to the head, just like….

Todd couldn't complete the thought. In his blinding rage, he had almost forgotten about her. Where was Linda now? Sitting in a meat locker at the hospital? Probably. He didn't want to think about that. Todd wanted to focus on his hatred, his loathing for those creatures on the stage that taken her from him. One bullet could satisfy his vengeance. It wouldn't bring her back, but it would feel good.

A quaking thud shimmied the ground as Todd broke through the last line of men. Baron's corpse was still steaming, heat rising from his head and trickles of blood running out of his eyes like streaks of tears. Todd skidded to a halt, his toes recoiling from the grass as though it was a bed of hot coals. He clutched the shotgun in his palms and rubbed the barrel against his cheek. Baron was dead. The man that had saved his life twice was dead.

And He did it. The Journeyman had killed him as nonchalantly as a dog scrapes away fleas. Cold fury swept through Todd's body. Mechanical precision guided his actions as he kneeled to the ground and raised the shotgun to his right shoulder. He felt surprisingly serene as he took aim at Goth, imagining he was one of the ducks he'd shot in Gainesville. Goth straightened like a deer caught in the headlights and Todd flinched. Was that a smile he saw on his face?

Fuck him!

He squeezed the trigger, leaning forward to counter the rifle's kick, and then fired again. Todd didn't want there to be enough left to identify the body. Anguished tears welling in his eyes, he fired a third time.

***

James Hall couldn't believe what he saw. Amy shuddered in his arms and then he knew it was real. She must have seen it too. He had watched three gunshots rip gaping wounds into Goth's body. Two in the ribs and the third shot directly in the sternum. He had seen through Goth's body for a moment, the hole was as large as a basketball, and then it was gone. The wounds sealed as quickly as they had torn open. Suckling sounds intoned the festering air as blood crawled up his skin and rejoined with flesh. Layers of muscle covered his graying bones and a lattice of veins and arteries pulsated sluggishly across his flesh. Skin sealed around Goth like a Ziploc bag sliding shut. When the regenerative resonance faded, Goth grinned at them fastidiously. He was pleased they had witnessed every moment of rebirth.

"Now do you understand? Do you know why you can't win! The turtle is asleep and I dominate in its absence. It has abandoned you and my time is nigh!"

The spheres rotated in his palm at a frantic pace. One blurred into the other, becoming a maelstrom of crackling essence, a conduit for the Journeyman's power. In Ithica, every clock struck twelve. The midnight hour had arrived.

"Look! Look!" Amy screamed and she pointed at Goth. "He's here! He's here! I see him!"

She held James tight and he followed an invisible line cast by her arm. He traced it to Goth, but he wasn't Austin Goth any longer. He was the harbinger of chaos, the destroyer of worlds, and the darkness beyond the light. James saw it. Behind Goth's transparent veneer of skin, an amorphous black creature took shape. It squirmed through his body, pouring through every orifice until it and Goth were one.

The Journeyman had arrived.

The spheres resonated a high pitched wail, a banshee's scream, and the Journeyman smiled malevolently. He knew they could see his true essence now and their fear strengthened him. He felt their cowardice in his spheres and the Journeyman knew it was time. An explosion of energy flowed from his hand and spread throughout the crowd. Streaks of black, shimmering pools of oil, blended with the white and blue energy to create a dark prism of power. The Journeyman's tendrils stretched to the captivated men and James shivered.

Feral screams rose from the men and they turned on each other. They clawed and chewed and punched on each other until bruises filled their piebald skin and blood soaked the ground. They had become a school of piranha, starved to the point of cannibalism, and the time had come to feed. They assaulted anything that moved.

James' gaze returned to Goth. He saw the man and the thing inside the man. They were growing, the man becoming physically larger and the dark essence inside him becoming more manifest. It was over. There was nothing they could do. Baron was dead. Goth had survived three point blank bullets. The Journeyman had arrived.

James closed his eyes and did something he hadn't done since he was a child kneeling on the carpet in front of his bed. He prayed to God. It was the only recourse left.

Part Four: July 4

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Betrayal

12:01 A.M.

James Hall didn't pray for long. He didn't know any Bible verse, not that it mattered because the screams would have distracted him. Strands of blood flew through the air like gooey strings of maple syrup. Gunshots echoed like popcorn popping and a unique racket he had never heard before seemed to rise above the rest. The rhythmic sawing of knives cutting through bone. In the time it took to blink an eye, the whole world had gone insane. The Lodge craved blood and they didn't care that it was their own they were spilling. They assaulted each other like wild animals. One man pounced on another, gnawing at his ear. A severed head rolled to the side of the stage, covered in mud and the eyes rolled back in the piebald skull. Another man plunged a nine-inch hunting knife deep into the eye socket of one of his Lodge brothers. The victim's eye exploded with a sound all too familiar to James. It resonated like a fat roach being squashed under a boot heel.

"D-Don't l-look," he whispered to Amy and pulled her head against his chest. The sickening violence wasn't what he protected her from, though. It was the Journeyman. Staring into the unadulterated radiance of his soul they gazed upon the fires of hell. Their eyes would melt if they gaped for too long, but James couldn't stop himself. His body trembled like a fallow leaf caught in a gale wind.

Run away, James. Run like always.

He couldn't. Fear paralyzed him; Goth's eyes twinkled like the vampires he'd imagined from all the horror pulps he'd read. His thrall entrapped him and James couldn't flee. Goth peered at them, huddled together, and his voice hissed venomously, "Yes. Very pretty. Very pretty indeed. Perhaps I'll keep you a little longer my flower. Make you my Queen."

Amy screamed incomprehensibly.

"Oh yes, but first," Goth said with sudden vigor. His body turned, seemingly floating above the stage, and he pointed at Todd. The enraged mob had ignored him and he froze in full view of the Journeyman. "You try to vanquish me with your puny weapon? I shall feed on you for this insolence. I'll pull your teeth out one at a time and make you swallow them."

The shotgun slipped from Todd's limp hands. He still couldn't believe it. He had seen the bullets, watched them tear through Goth's body, but he stood there unfazed. The bullets were as meaningless to him as mosquito bites, but now Goth turned his sights on the annoying insect. He extended his hand, all of his fingers contorted into talons bent into meat hooks.

"Come," he said and the energy from his spheres swept off the stage and plucked Todd from the ground. Wrapping around him in a cold embrace, the energy carried him forward. Todd's mouth formed a shocked circle, but before he could take another breath his feet planted firmly in front of Goth. The Journeyman laughed, his voice booming a cacophony of deranged timbres and malefic pitches. "Now, I will show you the true definition of pain."

Goth's fingers uncurled, slithering worms bulged beneath his skin like rings, and the fingernail of his index finger pierced the tip of Todd's chin. A dot of blood swarmed to the wound as Goth's tongue caressed his jagged, pointed teeth.

James couldn't watch.

"Don't never turn yer back on me again!" Cletus' grizzled voice rang in James' ears. He lowered the axe, one of the red ones intended for Amy, into Goth's left shoulder blade. Ribs snapped like toothpicks, splintering fragments of bone, and a stream of blood pumped out of the gaping wound, a stone cherub squirting water atop a fountain. Cletus pulled back on the axe handle, but it didn't budge. It was lodged in Goth's back and the Journeyman gasped for air.

His eyes widened, the dark wraith beneath his skin trembled in agony, and James' saw something in Goth's face he never imagined possible. He was surprised.

***

The audacity! rang through Goth's harrowed mind. He had forgotten Cletus. Damn that arrogant worm! I would have given him everything, a piece of the world to control under my auspices! How dare he!

But Cletus didn't want a piece of Goth's world to control. He wanted Ithica. He wanted his Lodge. And as the nicked axe blade cut through Goth's cartilage and bone, Cletus believed he had taken them back. He was wrong.

"Impudent deceiver!" Goth raged and he turned to face Cletus. The vulpine grin dropped off Cletus' face, shattering at his feet.

It wasn't possible! He had hit Goth with an axe, but still he turned around.

The wound closed itself, spitting the axe onto the stage behind them, and Goth slammed his spheres onto the floor. He wanted both hands to squeeze the life from Cletus Watts' scrawny body. "I allowed you to stand at my side and this is how you repay me!" Goth knew Cletus wasn't trustworthy, but he had sensed a reprieve in him. He'd become more docile and had seemed to accept his new role.

Cletus loathed him, but hid it well. He had waited for the right moment, a mere second of distraction. Goth had forgotten about him, left Cletus cowering on the stage, disoriented. It was all a ruse. Cletus had watched the battle unfold. Now, he wouldn't let another one of this charlatan's parlor tricks frighten him.

"Nobody takes my Lodge!" Cletus screamed and he grabbed one of the other axes. He pulled it over his shoulders and slung it forward, the tip of the double-edged blade descending toward Goth's head. An explosion of white energy fluctuated from the spheres lying on the stage and the axe bounced off Goth's skull. It didn't leave a mark.

Staring at the useless weapon on the stage, Cletus trembled. That was some parlor trick.

He gawked at the axe as though it had betrayed him and then his doleful eyes turned to the Journeyman. "Nobody turns on me!" Goth intoned and his hands stretched out for Cletus. As his shadowy fingers constricted around Cletus' neck, a rush of memories flooded Goth's mind. "I should have seen this! Why didn't I remember!" he shouted furiously. It was all coming back to him. Rome; where his own guards turned on him and stabbed the life out of Gaius. Berlin; where his fellow Nazis planted a bomb on his plane. St. Petersburg; where they poisoned and shot at his vessel called Rasputin. Athens; where the entire polis turned on him and dubbed him a despicable tyrant.

Betrayal had always thwarted the Journeyman in his moment of triumph, but he wouldn't allow it this time. A gnat as feckless as Cletus could never depose him. "Damn you!" he screamed in Cletus' face, a shower of acidic saliva burning the man's flesh like hot lava. "Nobody betrays me! Do you hear me? Nobody!" And he pushed his thumbs into Cletus' eyes, driving them deep. Cletus screamed in pain, his arms flailing uselessly, as Goth punctured both eyes with his claws, pushing back until he felt sticky brain matter swell beneath his fingernails. Cletus drooled uncontrollably. "Nobody!"

***

"They're killing each other," Todd whispered as he scampered to the corner of the stage. He counted himself lucky that Cletus turned on Goth when he did, but he and James both realized their reprieve was momentary.

"N-Not each o-other," James corrected. "G-Goth is k-killing h-him."

"Christ, James! What do we do?" Todd's eyes turned to the mob scene surrounding them. There was no way to escape through the field unscathed. "We could wait for most of the men to kill each other and then make a break for it." James shook his head timidly. Todd knew he was right. There were too many of them. It would take half the night for them to murder one another. "What then? I don't want to sit here and wait for Goth to finish with Cletus."

"L-Let me th-think," James interrupted, waving his left hand frantically. They were doomed and James knew it. Ideas and magic tricks weren't going to get them out of this jam. There wasn't a plan that could save them from the fey stench invading their souls.

Amy knew this wasn't a time for plans. It was a time for prayer.

Amy.

She lifted her head from James' chest and looked across the stage. She hadn't heard Goth. Another force had slipped inside her head and she nodded carefully.

Now Amy. While He is distracted.

Her eyes narrowed into slits and she looked across the stage, studying it.

Yes, now. You know what has to be done.

"Yes, I know now," Amy muttered and she jumped to her feet.

"What are you doing?" Todd beckoned with sudden terror. The last thing they needed was to jump up and draw attention to themselves. "Stop!" he said and he grabbed her wrist.

Amy shook him off, pushing Todd to the ground with a strength not her own. A power greater than any natural adrenaline had flooded her and she was three yards away before James realized something was happening. "No, stop!" he screamed, images of Carrie's dying breath flashing through his mind. He didn't want to see number nine, another dead body.

But they couldn't stop her. Amy ran behind Goth before they could protest any further. She snatched the fallen axe from the stage and raised it above her head. She took careful aim and a deep breath. Amy had never swung an axe in her life, but she had faith. He would guide her hands straight and true.

"What's she doing?" Todd screamed.

Lambent enlightenment flashed in James' eyes and he clutched Todd's arm. "Yes! The spheres! She's going to crush the spheres!"

***

The final breaths of life oozed from Cletus' body and Goth felt more powerful than ever. He had stopped the betrayal this time, breaking the repeating cycle of defeat that had plagued him for eternity. He had waited eons for this moment had never felt more satisfied. Then the feeling was gone; wan illness replacing it. His back stiffened and alarms resounded in his head. Goth had forgotten something. No, not something. Someone. He'd overlooked her.

He turned and saw the axe poised over Amy's head, but he also saw something more. A force only the Journeyman could see. Beneath a diaphanous coil of skin and blood, he saw it. The turtle was inside of her. The damn turtle had crept inside while he wasn't watching, while Cletus had distracted him. The turtle had fooled him again.

"No!" Goth screamed, stretching out his arms, but he was too late.

***

The blade of the axe struck both spheres in the exact center. It barely pierced their shells, but it was enough. A strident cacophony of high-pitched squeals and thunderous explosions ripped through the air. Amy stumbled backward, the force of an eruption throwing her into James. Then all they saw was the light. Shimmering energy engulfed the Journeyman and Cletus, incinerating them in a blinding flash, and the remnants of the blast inundated the angry mob, sweeping across the carnage, purifying. Screams echoed through Palmer Field and the radiance billowed into the night, irradiating the murky sky with a sheen of white and blue and gold.

Then it was gone. The energy dissipated, like an unavailing essence carried away by the wind. Plumes of white smoke rose from the ground, mixing with the steamy sweat of dead bodies, casting a surreal haze everywhere Amy looked. She dropped the axe and stared at her hands. They were unscathed. The spirit that had given her strength had also shielded all three of its servants from the explosion. It was over.

"Is everyone okay?" Todd asked as he pulled himself off the ground. The stage had collapsed and the entire field reminded him of a scene out of a Vietnam movie. Strewn bodies covered the grass for as far as the eye could see.

"Yeah," James answered with a cough. "I th-think w-we made it."

Tension seized Todd's shoulders and he jumped to his toes, a jaguar ready to pounce. "What about Goth?"

"It's okay," Amy said. "He's gone now."

"Are you sure?"

She nodded her head and Todd relaxed. They could all feel it now. The voice in their head was gone.

"Let's get out of here," Todd said and he slid Amy's arm over his shoulder.

***

Of the hundreds of members of the Rebel Lodge, only sixteen survived the night. Benny was one of them. He pulled himself out from underneath two smoldering dead bodies that had fallen on top of him. He didn't remember much, wondering if everything that had happened was part of the acid trip, and he surveyed the field of death with a confused expression on his face. Where were Goth and Cletus? He didn't see anyone he knew, except for Curt. His dead body lay at his feet, his heart punctured by Benny's pocketknife only ten minutes ago.

Benny didn't remember killing his best friend. Soon, he wouldn't remember anything. Wispy memories of the last hour receded form his mind like the dying images of a nightmare. He felt their intensity when he awakened from his slumber, but soon they faded to the subconscious of his mind and hibernated there.

That's when he realized what was missing. The guiding voice was gone, probably forever, and he felt hollow.

Benny mulled around the field for a few minutes, searching for friends and trying to discern what had transpired. He wasn't sure of anything anymore except for one urge that echoed through his head. Benny wanted to go home. And he did.

Chapter Thirty: Forgiven

10:22 A.M.

"James. James," a quaint voice called out.

He turned around, wiping away a veil of vaporous ether, and stepped into the darkness. She was there. He saw the red hair glowing crimson. "Carrie?"

"Yes, James," she answered and her face emerged from nothingness. She smiled. "It's me."

"But you're dead."

"Yes, James, I am."

"Did I die, too? That's it, on the field. I must have died in the explosion."

"You aren't dead, James."

"Then where am I?"

Carrie's smile strained and she turned her head to the side. She wanted to tell him, but either couldn't or wouldn't. "I don't know, James."

"Why am I here?" he asked, realizing that he had lost his stutter.

"I wanted you to know something."

"What?" he asked inquisitively.

"I want to know if you found Him yet?"

"Who?" James asked.

A seraphic radiance shimmered on her supple face and James squinted. Carrie was radiant. "Have you found God yet?"

Though he replied almost instantaneously, thousands of thoughts sprinted through his head during that brief pause--Baron's voice; Amy's strength; Goth; the darkness behind the veil; Scottie Nelson; Sheriff Blaine. "I don't know," he answered.

Carrie sighed warmly and turned to the side. "Keep looking, James. Never give up." Then she turned and began to walk away.

"Wait, Carrie, don't give!" James yelled, his voice echoing off the darkness, lingering in the tasteless ether.

She twisted her neck, affording James a final glimpse at her beautiful smile, and she said, "I can't stay, James. Not any longer."

"Why? I don't understand. Why can't you stay?"

Carrie motioned with a nod of her head. "Because of Him."

James turned around and saw it. The two soupy green eyes he had seen in the graveyard from the night before, except they had grown to enormous proportions, filling the dark void with souring energy. The slitted pupils narrowed and James felt the eyes bearing down on him, peering into his soul. His heart throbbed, nearly puncturing his chest and he clutched his throat to hold down the vomit. It's evil essence was filling him, inundating his soul, a wave of chemicals and oil dumped into a serene ocean.

He couldn't stand the sight of the gigantic eyes any longer and he turned, reaching out for Carrie. "Wait!" he screamed, but she wasn't there. In her place stood someone else. A dark figure, tall, head bowed. It was Him, the Journeyman.

"Hey there, little James," he snickered, raising his head and it was Him. James saw the burning red eyes, the fanged incisors cutting into his lower lip and the reeking breath that curdled his blood. Goth reached out, his denim cap flashing beneath a beam of light that emerged from the void. The cap read: LAZURUS.

"No!' James screamed as he felt Goth's fingers tighten around his throat.

***

"No!" James screamed, kicking his legs and falling out of the couch he'd fallen asleep on.

"Easy pal," Todd said, reaching to the floor and breaking his fall. "James, James, you okay?"

He scurried backward, pushing Todd away, groping at his arms for fear that the dream ether might still be clinging to him. James gasped deep, a baby drawing its first tenuous breath, and his fingertips palpitated his throat. He didn't feel any scars or abrasions.

"You okay?" Todd repeated, his eyes as wide as silver dollars.

James nodded, breathing threadily.

"I've been trying to wake you up for the last two minutes."

"I w-was asleep?"

"Yeah," Todd answered. "I thought you could use it."

James blew air through his circled lips exhaustedly. He was alive, Goth was gone. For the moment, that's all that mattered to him.

"Come on," Todd said and he lowered a hand to help James up. "It's time."

***

The placid smile puzzled James as he followed Todd into the sterile hospital room. He had expected some sense of joy on Amy's part, but this calm smile hadn't left her lips all night. She tried to prop herself up on her elbows, but Todd pressed on her shoulders. "Take it easy. No need to get up."

"I can't thank you enough," Amy extolled as James gravitated to the corner. The medicine smell and cold tile of hospitals always made his skin crawl. Still, he was relieved to see Amy recovering. "I'd be dead if it weren't for you two. I don't know what I can say."

"Don't say anything," Todd urged and he sat on the corner of her bed. He'd gotten a little sleep, but dark arcs hung below his eyes like funeral wreaths. "Rest, Amy. The nurse told me that they've contacted your parents and they're on their way. They'll be here before the end of the day."

"Good," she said languidly and yawned. She'd been through so much in the last twenty-four hours. James didn't want to imagine what Goth had done to her. He'd seen the Journeyman for only a few moments, but still felt the icy aura of his presence. It had stuck with him since last night and he curiously wondered what Amy felt. She seemed so relaxed even though she had spent hours with that beast.

"I think we should be thanking you," Todd said.

"Y-Yeah, that's r-right."

Amy smiled at James, acknowledging him in the corner, as her eyelids drooped wearily. The morphine pumping into her blood made their voices lethargic and motions slower. "Don't thank me," Amy said, the words rolling out of her numb lips. "Thank God. He was with us."

"God," James said skeptically.

Amy sluggishly twisted her neck and nodded at him. "Yes, James. God."

"A-Amy," he began hesitantly. "I d-don't believe in G-God.

She smiled wistfully. "He gave you the courage to save me and He gave me the strength to fight back. That's all that matters. When they held me captive in that dark room, I thought God had abandoned me. The only spirit I felt was His, but God was there all along. He hid deep inside me, carefully watching the events unfold, and when the right moment came, I felt his power fill my body. That's when I knew."

"To break the spheres," James surmised.

Amy nodded as her head sunk back on the svelte hospital pillow. "One cannot defy the strength of God. Not you James, despite your lack of faith. Not even Goth." Her eyes fell shut and then blinked open for a second. Amy thought of all the drowsy undergrads that lapsed off during her seminar classes and she grinned deliberately.

The door to the room swung open and a short black woman with a tricorner white hat walked in. She held the door open as she looked at James and Todd. "Ms. Stewart needs her rest."

"Of course," Todd said and he picked himself off the corner of the bed. Amy's eyes opened wide and Todd smiled at her. "Take care, Amy. I have your number at Vanderbilt and I'll call you once we're both in Nashville, make sure you've settled in okay."

"Thank you Mr. Bundy."

"Todd. Nobody calls me Mr. Bundy."

Amy smiled and closed her eyes. Todd motioned toward the door, but James hesitated and walked beside the bed. He studied Amy cautiously, wondering if God really had filled her body with holy strength. It was an idea he never believed in, but Amy was devout and maybe, he realized, that made the difference.

Maybe God is in all of us. She's accepted it and I haven't.

James caressed the back of her palm. It felt warm and alive. Amy's eyes sparkled open for a moment and James felt their loving glow. Words were unnecessary between them. James and Amy shared the same respect for each other. James thanked her for whatever divination gave her the strength to defeat the Journeyman and Amy thanked James for freeing her. As their braided gaze broke away and she drifted back to sleep, James smiled, both dimples deepening in his cheeks.

"Get better," he whispered and followed Todd into the hall.

***

Todd and James walked shoulder to shoulder down the hallway of the hospital. They passed one room with the door open. Inside, Fulton Brooks sat tentatively by his son. The urge for vengeance had waned, as it had for everyone in Ithica moments after midnight. Now, Fulton prayed for his son's health and waited fastidiously. He wanted to be there when Teshawn opened his eyes, and he would three hours later.

By the time James and Todd reached the small lobby of the second floor wing, James' hands were shaking. "She r-really b-believes G-G-God s-saved us."

"Maybe not us," Todd countered as they settled onto an old brown couch with scratchy upholstery. The cushions shifted like sandbags and Todd leaned forward, timidly avoiding the stiff backrest. "God saved her."

"W-What do you m-mean?"

"While you were gone I talked to the doctors. They described her injuries in more detail than I wanted to know. Shit man, working on the road you hear about a lotta strange crap, but this was real. What happened to Amy was no urban legend. She's got the scars to prove it. What Goth did to her, I don't think I could have taken it. But she did. Something had to give her the strength to pull through all that pain, physical and mental."

James lowered his head as a momentary silence filled the narrow space between them. He contemplated what had happened in the field and searched his memory for a divine sign. He hadn't seen any halos or parting of the clouds, so he probed his memory for more subtle indications. James wanted to say he had felt a stronger presence, the same power that had invigorated Amy, but he couldn't. "I've n-never p-p-put much faith in G-God."

"Neither have I," Todd lamented, his eyes growing more distant, "but I'm starting to." More silence and then Todd gasped for air as though he'd forgotten to breathe for the last minute. "Maybe we all feel Him in different ways. For Amy, His spirit was obvious. She was looking for it."

"But we w-weren't," James finished. Todd didn't respond, but James knew he agreed.

"I guess He's part of our lives in ways we don't recognize." Todd snorted through his nose, a polite, quiet snicker. "Jesus, I think I'm jealous."

"Of wh-what?"

"Amy. She has something we don't. Unswerving faith."

"I guess," James conceded, "but if Amy is right and G-God was on th-that field with u-us, H-He must have h-h-had us in m-mind. H-He saved us, t-too, wh-whether we p-p-prayed for H-His help or n-not."

"And what about Baron?" Todd asked. "I'm pretty sure Baron had faith in God, but He didn't save him. What does that say about Amy's almighty being? He saved two losers who don't give a crap about Him, but let one of His devout worshipers die."

They lowered their heads again, the silence more uneasy this time. James knew the answer, it sprung to his mind, but he bit his tongue. If God was there, Baron was part of His plan. He had faced the Journeyman without fear, struck him down, and afforded James the opportunity to free Amy. Maybe that was God's intention. They each had a role to play and Baron followed his through to the end. Or maybe, James hated to consider, death was what Baron wanted. Dying in service to his God.

Suddenly, James felt very cold. That type of service seemed more befitting the Journeyman.

"The c-city is g-going to t-take care of him," James broke the taciturn parapet erecting between them.

"Huh?"

"While I was a-at the p-police station, they told m-me the city will g-give Baron a f-funeral. He doesn't have any family, but the town really s-seems to love him."

"They did," Todd corrected him with the past tense. He missed Baron. They'd only known each other for a few hours and thinking back to the time they spent alone in that jail cell, Todd remembered how much Baron's odd rambling had annoyed him. Not anymore. He would have given anything at that moment to hear a southern drawl shout 'shoo yeah.' But that wasn't going to happen and he quickly changed the subject before the tears could fully build up in his eyes. "What did the cops say?"

"We're free men once a-again," James tried to say with some jocularity. "They've cleared you and Baron in the killing of those guys by the c-creek. Now, they say it was s-s-self defense. As for me, well, they're ad-admitting that th-they never h-had any r-reason to h-hold me."

"You should sue."

James shook his head languidly. "No. I d-don't w-want anything m-more to do with the I-Ithica p-p-police. Sheriff B-Blaine just w-wanted me out of the w-way for the e-evening. They knew about the m-militia r-rally. Six o-officers had in-infiltrated the ranks. One of them survived the r-riot. He h-heard Cl-Cletus bragging about kill-killing the Sheriff."

"So they know it wasn't us?" Todd surmised. James nodded and he blew a relived breath through his pursed lips. "Man. I can't believe they're letting us go. I was afraid we'd be stuck in Ithica for months. At the very least I thought they'd hold us for questioning regarding the riot."

James nodded in agreement and his eyes narrowed into eldritch slits. "I thought so, t-too. It's r-really weird. Everyone in town seems to w-want to f-forget about the whole in-incident. I h-hiked to P-Palmer this morn-ning and saw a b-bunch of p-police. They sort of m-mulled around, but didn't d-do much. Eventually, th-they loaded the b-bodies into d-dump trucks, but n-nobody said mu-much. They were despondent, as though the entire r-riot m-meant nothing. Even the news c-cameras didn't s-seem very in-interested."

"News cameras?" Todd asked with some trepidation in his voice. "Local?"

"Some, but mostly regional. I e-even saw a CNN re-reporter."

Todd rubbed his forehead with both hands. For CNN to arrive in Ithica this morning with cameras in tow, someone had to tip them off last night. Todd was afraid he knew whom. "Him," he mumbled and James peered at him, inching away from Todd as though he were a black fungus growing on the brown upholstery.

"They didn't s-seem very interested," James repeated nervously. "Nobody was. This whole deb-debacle is s-s-slipping from the town's mind."

"Maybe it is," Todd offered. By the tone of his voice, James couldn't determine if he was serious or joking. "We agree that He somehow crept into our thoughts. Maybe now that He's gone everyone is forgetting what He was and what He did."

"Is He gone?" James asked cryptically. Neither of them wanted to answer, or even consider it. Todd inched a little further away from James and the silent wall built up between them again. It fell swiftly, however. Todd turned to James and smiled. "Why don't you come with me."

"To Nashville?"

"Yeah, why not? I've got a big apartment set up and you're pretty fast on your feet. I could use a friend like you in a new town." A red blush filled James' cheeks. Todd hadn't called him a friend until that moment, but he had begun to consider him one. James was still a kid, but he was wiser and more mature than most thirty year olds Todd knew. He needed someone like that in his life, a steadying keel to help guide him through stormy waters. Most of all, he needed someone to help him forget Linda.

In many subconscious ways, Todd had wanted to die as they faced Goth. Death was the easy way out, the painless course, but he had survived. Now, he had to find ways to go on living, make it through each day without the one person that ever mattered to him. Revenge was gone and Todd didn't have anything left to fill him up or provide purpose. More than ever, he needed a friend.

"Let me think about it," James answered hesitantly. Todd turned his head, hoping James hadn't seen his tears, and nodded dolefully. His cheeks puckered, but he wiped the pain away from his expression.

"That's fine, man. I got things to take care of, but I'll leave tonight. Meet me at eight on Palmer Field," Todd said and he turned around again. His face was as sanguine as ever, the hurt lurking deep beneath his veneer.

James agreed. "I n-need some time to take c-care of some st-stuff."

"I understand," Todd said and he turned away quickly, feeling the tears rise back up. He missed Linda terribly.

***

"I'll leave you alone," the doctor said as he tossed his apron onto the cold steel table. When he was gone, James glanced at the apron. The crimson stains had faded from it, but he still saw it there; speckles of blood that had wriggled their way around the plastic drapes coroners wore when they conducted autopsies. He wondered if any of that faded blood belonged to Carrie.

James exhaled slowly through his mouth and then sucked down a deep breath through his nose. He felt very much like a marathon runner before a race. His heart thudded nervously, but he focussed on his breathing, slowly inhaling, blowing the air out quickly. There was no turning back. He wanted to see her one last time.

With a sudden jerk, he pulled open the cooler tray. It slid out of the giant icebox with a haze of frozen air. A white sheet covered her body and James dared not touch it. He still saw her face in his mind and that was enough. The words of the coroners' report blared through his head mordantly.

CAUSE OF DEATH: INCONCLUSIVE.

She'd died of a ruptured brain aneurysm. Whether the blood vessel popped and she fell on her head or whether someone pummeled her, causing the vessel to explode, the doctors couldn't determine. Ithica's only hospital was a small facility, only sixty beds, and they didn't have the technology needed to make an educated conclusion. A next of kin could have requested an autopsy at a larger facility in Atlanta, but Carrie was alone. She didn't have anyone else in the world.

Like me, James thought and he rubbed a corner of the sheet between his thumb and forefinger. The coarse material resonated like sandpaper and James' breathed shakily. I miss you Carrie. I didn't realize how much until just now. I suppose, with the way I choose to live my life, I never get to know people for very long. Relationships wade in the shallow end of the pool. I don't want to know much about them and I don't reveal much about myself, but you were different. I think I would have told you anything.

James tucked his lower lip underneath his upper, feeling the plaque on the front of his teeth. Ithica had put a rotten, festering taste in his mouth like fermented apples and it was time to leave. He pushed the tray back into the cooler, slamming the silver door shut. Many years would pass before James Hall would forget Carrie Mason and even then he still thought of her fondly any time he passed a loving couple standing underneath the solitary beam of a streetlamp. It would remind him of that one mystical night they had spent together in Ithica, the only time in James' life someone, a complete stranger, would intrigue him so ardently.

As he left the morgue, James was surprised to find himself smiling. The friendship of a stranger had changed him irrevocably and for the rest of his life. It was a great turning point and James never ran from a problem again. Life was a massive pendulum that swung between the zenith and nadir of human struggles and happiness. From this day forward, whenever James Hall found himself mired by the rigors of life, he fought it head on.

No more running away.

***

Bright bursts of neon green and flaming red exploded in the air. Ohhs and ahhs resounded form the crowd below. The firework blasts were truly amazing. Flares arched into the air, a parabolic stream of color trailing them, and exploded into flares of orange and blue. The bursts plummeted toward earth, but not before a secondary explosion cast silver sparkles across the valley. It was a breathtaking display that people had traveled across Georgia to see.

Todd wasn't one of them. He hadn't driven to Ithica in search of pyrotechnics--he hadn't even heard of the town before yesterday--but he found himself separated from the rest of the spectators watching the show. He had driven his Buick up the dirt road to Palmer Field, dusting his tires the same light brown color as his car's paint job along the way. He'd sat there most of the day, his car parked alongside the long yellow ribbon of police tape that cordoned off the scene of the riot, dosing in and out of sleep. A full bottle of Southern Comfort sat between his thighs, each finger slowly caressing the thick glass of its square neck.

Todd had contemplated this decision for hours and he sat very still, watching the exploding fireworks, when James Hall approached the driver's side door of the Buick. He looked in, saw the bottle nestled between Todd's thighs the way a lonely woman holds her poodle close and his eyes flashed to Todd's face. Todd was calm, his left hand gently tapping the steering wheel as he gazed across the valley.

"You okay?" James asked. He shoved his hands into his pockets, not knowing what else to do with them.

"I've sat here most of the day thinking about you and Linda. I know you're not coming with me," Todd admitted, even though James' worldly possessions were stuffed into the black backpack strapped over his shoulders. "I'm afraid of being alone. I can't remember the last time I was on my own."

"I'm sorry Todd," James said pleadingly, but he didn't understand how he felt. James had spent most of his life alone and he preferred living that way.

Todd waved his hand nonchalantly, beckoning James to hold his tongue. "It's all right, man. You gotta do what's best for you. From the moment I saw that look on your face at the hospital, I knew you weren't coming along."

"I'd only get in your way," James justified.

Todd shook his head. "Don't worry, James. I'm not blaming you for anything. If anyone, I blame myself. I've had a lot of practice at it." A green burst of fireworks exploded to the delight of the crowd and Todd waited for the cheers to die down. He gazed at the bottle in his lap and grasped it between his palms. The glass rubbed against his unshaven face, pulling the skin of his cheek tautly. "You know, I haven't had a drink in months."

"M-Maybe you sh-should throw that away."

Ignoring him, Todd continued, "I gave it up for Linda. I hurt her once when I was strung out and finally realized what I was doing to her, to us. Nothing will help you kick a bad habit faster than hurting those you love. I blamed myself for the rift between us and everything that happened since. Hell, I blamed myself when that asshole shot her." He paused for a moment, hiding his strained face behind the bottle as grief deepened the lines on his skin.

"Hey Todd, you're a g-good guy. Wh-What happened was t-terrible, but you c-can't bl-blame yourself."

Todd lowered the bottle to his lap and James noticed the tears building in his eyes. He felt incredibly clumsy in that moment, as if anything he did or said would make the situation worse.

"It was always easier to blame myself," Todd explained as he breathed a raspy breath. His lungs filled sporadically, exhaling machine gun fire. "And when Linda died yesterday, taking revenge was easier than facing my fears. I always take the easy way out. But after we'd vanquished everyone I could take revenge on, I found myself alone with my thoughts of her. Christ, revenge has a sour taste. I felt sick to my stomach half the day until I finally realized what made me go after Goth and Cletus. I thought it was revenge, but it wasn't."

"Regret," James said.

Todd nodded.

James knew a thing or two about regret and now he understood how Todd felt. There was no way to defeat regret, it hid in the shadows like the bogeyman underneath your bed. Revenge couldn't kill it. The only way to snuff out regret was to seek forgiveness; internally or externally.

"I've never been able to live with the pain I caused her and when she died I thought, here I go again. I'd committed the ultimate screw up and it wasn't one of those mistakes I could make up for with flowers or a kiss or kind words. I can't deal with my regret, but I know how to forget it." He held up the bottle of Southern Comfort, twisting the bottle to examine the amber contents from all sides.

"Don't Todd."

"She's the only reason I ever gave up using and now she's gone." A rapid succession of green and red fireworks popped in the air, one after the other until they created a booming cacophony of explosions. All the while, James stared at Todd's face and watched his tan skin change shades with each alternating burst of color. It was red, then green, darker green, then red again. Behind all the color, gleaming tears rolled down his cheeks.

Todd's somber eyes locked onto James and he spoke with a melancholy tone. "I was all set to get loaded when I heard a voice in my head." James' chest clenched as a gasp of air escaped his lips. "No, not His voice," Todd clarified and James felt uneasy, but safer. "I heard Linda's voice. I don't know how, but I'm sure it was her and she forgave me and said she never blamed me. Fuck it, I don't know how that's possible, I would have blamed me, but she didn't. I'm telling you James, I know it was her."

"I believe you," he said and he did. After everything he'd witnessed the past two days, James would believe anything.

"She came back to me, just for a few minutes, and told me how much she loved me and how much she had wanted to work things out. Most of all, she made sure I wasn't blaming myself anymore. It's difficult to accept, but I believe her." Todd pulled the bottle across his chest and slung it out the open window. The Southern Comfort struck the hard ground with the deep bass clink of a full bottle and tumbled end over end into the darkness of the field.

"Are you okay?" James asked as he leaned closer. Tears sparkled on Todd's face, glowing red and green with the fireworks, and James finally understood that they weren't tears of regret. They were tears of happiness and forgiveness. The pendulum of life was finally swinging Todd's way.

"I'll get by," Todd answered as he turned the ignition on his car. "It will be tough. I'll probably cry myself to sleep in a hotel room tonight," he explained with a surprising grin that flashed across his face, "but I'll get by." Todd reached to the passenger seat and held up a small brass vase with a pyramidal lid. "Her remains. I had Linda cremated today and I'm going to make a detour to the ocean. I can be in South Carolina and at the sea by morning. She always loved the ocean. I think it's the best place for her. Let a cortege of sea breezes take her away. I might even play a couple songs by the surf. She always loved my music. Don't know why."

"She probably loved the guy playing it," James said with a wry smirk.

Bemused, Todd smiled, his eyes drifting to places James couldn't see. He imagined Linda's sanguine face. "Maybe."

"I have to get g-going also," James added and he pulled the backpack tight against his shoulders.

"I don't know if I should ask, but what about your friend, the one who died the other morning. Did you find what you were looking for?"

"N-Nope," James answered and he sighed despondently. "The p-police will still investigate, but if they h-have any leads, I d-don't know about th-them. My p-part's through. I've accepted the fact that some questions are never answered."

"If you say so." Todd stuck his hand through the open window and James shook it. "If you're ever in Nashville, look me up. You've always got a place to stay."

"I will," James said confidently. "I w-want to m-make sure you and A-Amy are all r-right."

"I am now," Todd said and he put the Buick into drive. He pulled away, kicking up clumps of clay dust on the road as he faded down the hill. A minute later, he was gone and the only light was the lambent glow in the sky.

James dragged his boot heels along the ground, back and worth in a sweeping arc. The pendulum was swinging and he felt good. Life went on and so did he.

As he marched toward the road, James looked across the field, searching for the bottle of Southern Comfort. A royal blue explosion of fireworks lightened the grass and he saw it momentarily. Something laid beside the bottle. A dark clump. From a distance it looked like a dirty mixing bowl and James walked up to it. A flash of azure streaked across the sky again and James realized it wasn't a mixing bowl. It was a turtle, laying on its back.

"Poor thing," James uttered and he picked it up, wiping the dust and grass off its brown and greenish shell. He'd read somewhere that turtles died if they lied on their backs for very long. He also knew that it couldn't get into that position unless someone turned it over. "Who would do such a th-thing?" he wondered aloud as he set the turtle on the ground. The amphibian wasn't shy. As soon as it was right side up again, its arms and head popped out of the shell and it continued its plodding journey.

The turtle lumbered north and so did James. He wondered what else hid inside the shell. What if we all exist inside one enormous turtle shell? he pondered. The idea interested him.

***

The road was dark and deserted. James hadn't seen a car in over two hours and the endless twisting inclines of the foothills had wreaked havoc on his blistered, exhausted feet. The thirty pound pack on his back didn't help matters. Muscles ached to the bones, but James urged himself forward. It was a warm night and he told himself he could stop and sleep under a tree if he didn't find any signs of civilization soon. He'd slept under trees before, in Mississippi and Louisiana, but not in Georgia. They're all the same, James told himself and he trudged up the slope of another hill.

In the distance, a wolf snarled. It didn't howl, as most travelers of the night heard, but snarled testily. James' feet froze in place and his neck gradually twisted backward. It seemed to take forever for his sight to reach behind him and when it did, he was alone. Thank God.

It snarled again, panting heavily, and James felt it all around him. The wolf was closing in, but then he remembered where he was: north Georgia.

Wolves don't live here, he reminded himself. Maybe bobcats and bears, but not wolves.

It snarled again, the crawling sound of its lips retracting from blood stained fangs resonated through the muggy night air. Suddenly, he sensed something beyond the wolf. Maybe the beast with the eyes from the graveyard. He could almost imagine their pea hued glow amongst the trees. Something else stalked the night, a familiar scent of sulfur lurking in the air.

The Journeyman.

He's here! James panicked. His breathing shortened into quick gasps as he sprinted up the sloping road. He cursed himself for wandering into the night alone.

I should have gone with Todd or stayed in Ithica. Dammit, I should I have known He was still out there!

Flushed blood inundated his cheeks like foamy seaspray. Splotches of red and peach broke out all over his body and sweat drenched him from head to toe. James appeared as though he'd jumped out of the shower, but had forgotten to towel off. He looked up the hill, realizing he was half way to the top. Maybe that's what the Journeyman wanted. He thought, Maybe He's up there with one of those axes, ready to finish the job he started on Amy.

The snarl grew more intense, echoing from every direction, and James' mouth gaped open, a constant scream, as he sucked down more air. Jet tendrils stretched out from the surrounding shadows, pulsating with the Journeyman's essence, and constricted around his throat. The strands felt slimy like the slippery guts of a freshly cleaned pike. James clawed at his throat, gasping as he dove the last few feet toward the zenith.

He landed face down in the middle of the road, heaving oxygen, and gripping his stomach as he vomited. When he was through, he wiped his mouth and looked back down the hill. James was alone. No more snarls and no evidence of any black tendrils.

I imagined it,

He pulled on the end of his T-shirt and his chest pressed firmly against the white cotton. Latent heat billowed through the elastic collar and James wiped the soupy sweat from his brow. He's still out there. Maybe not here, not now, but somewhere, waiting for his chance again.

James didn't want to think about it and he knew that he wouldn't sleep under a tree tonight. It would be a long time before he ever dared that again. He turned to face the downward slope of the hill and saw a house of lights flicker near the bottom. Pink neon buzzed above the door and James breathed easier. He really needed a cold beer.

***

James strolled into the roadside bar and ordered himself a draft. After checking his ID, the bartender served him a cold pilsner in a frosted mug. James didn't even care that it tasted like piss. It felt cool running down his parched throat, washing away the vomit aftertaste, and he looked for a table. He found an empty one in the far corner, a good perspective to study the room, and he plopped down on a folding chair with a punctured seat cushion. A burp of air escaped the black cushion as he settled in and James breathed deeply.

It was a smoky dive like so many other he'd ventured into, but he'd never felt more relaxed. If some part of the Journeyman looked for him in here, at least it was in the open with people all around him. Most of the patrons were truckers or locals from one of the surrounding towns or counties. A moose head hung above the bar. It had seen better days and James chuckled. Despite its worn skin and sagging glass eyes, he assumed Mr. Moose looked better than he did.

James gulped another swig of the cheap beer and pressed his elbows onto the gritty Formica tabletop. James breathed more easily. He felt safe or, at least, more secure.

"Scuse me, is anyone sitting here?" a twangy voice asked him from behind. James looked to his side and glimpsed a radiant face. Taut, creamy skin with two wide set cat-like green eyes looked down at him. Her hair was red and curly and she had rolled up the sleeves of her olive green shirt just far enough to see a hint of the muscle tone in her shoulders. She was the kind of woman James couldn't say no to.

He extended his hand and smiled pleasantly. "Go ahead." He assumed she needed the chair to fill out another table, but she sat down across from him, leaning close to the table.

"Hi. My name's Terry." She held out her lithe hand and James shook it, grasping it delicately.

"I'm James."

"I don't do this often, but I figure what the hell. You only live once. I haven't seen you in here before, but I don't get around as much as I did a few years ago. Where do you live?"

"Just m-moved out of Ithica."

"Where to?" she asked, a thin smile hinting at the sparkling rows of teeth behind her lips.

James shrugged. "Don't kn-know yet." A goofy grin spread across his lips. No woman had ever sat down with him without a little prompting on his part. He liked this change.

"I've thought about moving to Atlanta," Terry extolled. "I finished school there a few years ago and I'm dying to go back."

"What sc-school?"

"G-Tech. Go Yellowjackets!" she said with a giggle. "Actually, I never went to a game. Where'd you graduate from?"

James sensed the abashed heat building in his face and his trembled miserably, "I-I-I-I n-never w-went t-to," he paused, turning his face down as he stared into his beer. He felt like a wretched gamin intruding on bourgeois territory. He didn't belong here with her. "I-I'm s-sorry."

"What for?" Terry asked. Her falsetto voice held no contempt; singing sweetly, a nightingale. James looked up and she was still smiling.

"For m-my st-stutter."

"Stutter," she echoed, a puzzled expression on her face. She smiled again, the supple wrinkles of consternation disappearing. "I hadn't noticed until you said something."

James' dimples deepened on both cheeks. Veracity rang in her words. "Can I b-buy you a b-beer."

"In a bit. It's still early for me. I want to talk, if you will put up with someone so garrulous."

"S-Sure," James said excitedly. "Here's one. Wh-What do y-you call l-lawyers s-skydiving out of a p-plane?"

Terry's smile became crooked as she leaned across the table and kissed him lightly on the lips. "Skeet," she whispered.

James smiled widely and nodded his head. "You sure I c-can't b-buy you a beer?"

"No thanks," Terry answered quickly. "You can dance with me instead."

"Dance?" James said hesitantly.

"You do dance, don't you?" Terry asked as she rose from her seat.

"S-Sure." Actually, not since that dreadful prom five years ago.

"Good. I know the perfect song." She skipped to the juke box, her tiny strides moving her an inch at a time. After shoving a quarter into the glowing machine, she pressed B-4 and sauntered her way back to James. Before he was all the way out of his seat, Terry's hands pulled him onto the parquet dance floor. "This is my favorite song!" she exclaimed and the languid beats of Crowded House's Don't' Dream It's Over blared from the speakers.

"Come on, James," she said and she pulled him close. "So you really don't know where you're going?"

"Nope," James answered. "I'm living on the r-road for n-now."

"That's fascinating. My momma had a saying about long roads," Terry began and James tried not to cringe. Wandering through the South, he'd heard more pointless aphorisms from someone's 'momma' than he cared to recall. Usually the momma sayings had something to do with not marrying one's cousin or avoiding fiddling contests with Lucifer. "My momma said that long roads are a lot like life. You cant see the end coming, there're all kinds of twists and turns, and at every fork comes a choice."

James snorted quietly and nodded. It was the first momma aphorism he ever appreciated. "I guess y-your m-momma was pretty w-wise." Terry nodded.

They danced through the rest of the song without saying a word. Giggles and furtive smiles were all the communication they needed and when the song ended, Terry pecked him on the cheek.

James blushed. She was moving faster than he was used to, but he didn't mind. Life presented new experiences, new roads, all the time and he reminded himself that's why he enjoyed wandering from place to place. The journey never ended, the highway interminable. And as he stood on the empty dance floor squeezed between a bar and a juke box, staring into Terry's dark emerald eyes, James couldn't help wondering what new road was opening before him.

The End

Bio: Allen Woods' stories have appeared in Lost Worlds, Pablo Lennis, Of Unicorns and Space Stations, Art Mag, Gotta Write Network Litmag, Titan, Nuketown, Dubious Matter, The Thread, Dragon's Lair, Little Red Writer's Hood, Home Made Stories, and Pegasus.

allenwoods@sprintmail.com